


Ghost Stories of a Dead Man

by Celemion



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I'd say it gets better for you but, I'm so sorry Skulduggery, Pre-Canon, Short Stories, The Dead Men (Skulduggery Pleasant), War Era, they all connect, we both know I'd be lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:49:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 42,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26953159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celemion/pseuds/Celemion
Summary: There's a war going on, and every soldier has stories to tell. Skulduggery Pleasant, the miracle soldier, is one of them.
Comments: 57
Kudos: 25





	1. Matters of No Concern

The lake sat, as it always did, in perfect stillness. The black surface remained unbroken by any movement and its inky darkness showed no reflection of the dead land that surrounded it. The lake, looking much more like a gaping pit to the underworld, was situated at the bottom of a large hill, and at its peak sat a lone rider and their horse. As unmoving as the water below, they stood, peering across those glossy depths to the dark castle that sat just beyond.

The horse stamped at the ground nervously and its rider tightened their grip on the reins. A harsh wind blew over the barren landscape, ruffling the riders cloak but not daring to ripple the surface of the lake. The rider, face shrouded by their hood, flicked their wrist, and the pair began their descent.

The lake seemed to glare at them as they passed. The rider urged their mount forward.

The castle that lay before them was as ominous as it was large. The stone was dark, aided by the heavy cloud cover of the late evening, and its large oaken doors stood closed, towering over the pair as they approached. It had been the home of a rather well-to-do noble family, the rider knew, for the last few hundred years. But as the war had swept through the landscape, it had swept them along with it. The new owner had taken a fancy to its imposing stature and made himself welcome. It was unknown what he had done with those that had been living there- the castle's new master did not tend to take prisoners. The rider, however, was unperturbed. Matters such as those were of no concern.

The wooden doors groaned open as they approached, and a delicate hand gently pulled the steed to a halt. Golden light spilled out onto the ground before them, lacking warmth and any sort of welcome, and it framed the grim faced butler who stood just inside. He was a slight man with thin, wiry eyebrows, and he stood primly at the top of the stone steps.

"You are late," he said, gazing down his nose at the rider.

The rider dismounted with unerring grace, their cloak pooling around their feet, and they held the reins out with those delicate hands. "It was unavoidable," came a smooth voice from under the hood.

The butler didn't reply, but took a hand from behind his back and gestured. A young boy, dressed in tattered and muddied clothes that once would have been of the highest quality, melted from the shadows to the right of the rider, and tentatively approached. His face was gaunt and his eyes were frightened as he glanced between the rider and the leather that dropped from their hands. The boy scurried forward, leading the animal back into the gloom as the figure in the cloak strode forward, mounting the steps. The butler stood aside as they passed and when they were through, the heavy doors closed on their own.

The foyer of the castle was large and grand and seemed to block the seeping chill from outside uncharacteristically well for a castle of this size. Fire burned in the large chandelier that hung suspended over the rich carpet beneath the hooded figures' feet, and massive mirrors on the walls glinted in the light. It was all so very big, and all so very ridiculous.

The butler moved, soundlessly. He didn't offer to take the heavy cloak, nor did the new guest ask.

"The master," he said, "is expecting you. Please, come this way."

He led the way up the massive staircase and through the significantly darker halls. There were portraits here, large ones, depicting mortal nobles of various ages, pitiful attempts at regality plastered across their faces. There was what seemed to be a newer addition as they approached the end of the hall- a man and a woman, with their hands on the shoulders of a third sitting before them. The rider barely recognized him as the stable boy as they passed.

The butler led them around the corner and to a spiraling stair that curled its way to the top of one of the towers visible from the outside. This part of the castle was cold, and fire burned in brackets periodically, but the reach of their light was minimal, plunging them into a deep gloom more often than not. They arrived at a large wrought iron door, and the butler swung it open, allowing the visitor to walk through.

The room was large and spacious, reminiscent of the grand foyer below, and was lighted by another large metal chandelier that hung from the ceiling, not quite reaching the edges of the room and letting the flickering shadows coil in the corners. A large fire roared in an ornately decorated fireplace on the far right, and the walls were lined with shelves bearing objects and trinkets and books of every sort. Two velvet chairs sat in the middle of the room, with a small wooden table between them, and an intricately woven rug covered the stone floor. This was a room meant for elegant comfort and exuberant luxury, and in the center of it all, stood a man.

The butler bowed deeply. "Your visitor has arrived," he announced and the man inclined his head to them slightly. He was tall, this man, with hair as black as pitch and dressed in the finest of silks. The light from the flickering flames danced across his pale skin and emerald green eyes glittered as Nefarian Serpine turned, lowering that glistening red right hand of his.

Serpine gazed at the visitor for a moment. "Thank you, Jethro," he said finally, "you may leave us."

The butler bowed again, and moved to the door, shutting it behind him as he went. The room was silent, save from the cackling of the fire, and Serpine smiled that blinding white smile. "I am so very pleased you could join us. I pray the journey was uneventful?"

"It is very unlike you," the visitor said, in a beautiful voice, "to engage in small talk," and China Sorrows lowered the hood from her beautiful head.

Serpine spread his hands. "You know me well, Miss Sorrows," he said, in mock resignation. "I only ask since I seem to recall the time of our meeting was set much earlier, and I was curious as to why my esteemed visitor was so late."

China slipped the cloak from her shoulders and moved, gracefully laying it on the back of the plush chair before her. "I have my reasons," she said, as dismissively as she could, and met Serpine's gaze. His eyes glittered, but she held it and he laughed.

"I'm sure you do, my dear. That was all very rude of me. And before I even offer you any refreshments! Would you like something to eat? Some wine, perhaps?"

China didn't respond and instead moved her gaze to the small bottle that sat on the table between them.

Serpine's smile turned coy. "Ah, yes. I assure you that anything I supply is perfectly safe." He lifted the bottle from the table and gazed at it. "Such items are reserved for my more… unsavory of guests."

"Your enemies, you mean."

Serpine returned his gaze to her as he tucked the small bottle into his coat pocket. "You make me sound like such a brute. Anyone who enters here is my guest, and the leader of the Diablerie is certainly among the highest of company."

China had little patience for Serpine. He was a man of ambition that rivaled her own, and of treachery that even she was wary of. He was a man, she mused, too much like herself. He was cunning, and dangerous, and China had to force herself to ignore the feeling of competition that rose in her throat.

"How long," she said, turning the subject elsewhere, "will Mevolent allow one of his dearest generals to hide out in his little hole before forcing him to rejoin the fold? A week missing from a losing side can be a significant amount of time."

"Mevolent is an understanding man."

"Mevolent is a man at war."

"He is a man who understands the importance of our mission, and will not rush it. If he needs me, he will call for me. Until then, I will remain here."

"While Baron Vengeous remains at his side."

Serpine seemed unperturbed by her brash words. "I was never a man for leading troops, Miss Sorrows. I am much more suited to the work done in the shadows. We are very much alike, in that regard."

China resisted the urge to hit him, and instead let a little smile play at her lips. "Yes, I suppose we are."

Serpine clapped his hands together suddenly, and that bright smile returned to his face. "Now then," he said, "to the reason you are here. Did I congratulate you on a job well done?"

"I do not do my work for praise."

"Nonsense. It was a momentous task, and you pulled it off with aplomb."

China remained silent and Serpine continued. "The trap required very careful planning. Our moves were intricate and needed to be carried out effectively and orchestrated with precision. But I am nothing if not precise, and you are nothing if not effective."

Serpine gestured to the far left wall that was shrouded in shadow. "I must say," he mused, "that I am surprised you didn't visit sooner of your own volition to see the fruits of your labor."

"I am a busy woman, Nefarian."

"And time stops for no one. But, you are here now, and you can revel in our oncoming victory." He waved his hand and a flame blossomed along the far wall, turning the pitch darkness into a murky gloom. From her vantage point, China could see a pile of ragged fabrics in the back corner. She didn't move.

"I killed the girl last," Serpine said, folding himself elegantly into a chair beside them and motioning for China to do the same, "and pardon me for not referring to them by title. I don't know them, and I simply don't care."

China sat in the other chair. "Understandable," she said, "no serpent asks a name before striking the ankle."

Serpine smiled. He did that a lot. "Poetic, my dear. And very true."

There was a moment of silence and then he continued. "I killed the girl last because I relished the fact that it might scar her rather well before her final moments. I was correct, of course, and relish it I did. The woman struggled to the end. Pitiful, but who am I to judge."

He looked at China. "I regret not allowing you to have the finishing blow. She was a rather tough opponent, I hear."

China remembered the fight a few days earlier. It had been savage and bloody and she remembered ambushing her adversary in their quaint little kitchen in the quaint little house. She remembered the kitchen knife entering her leg and the crack of bone as China broke the arm that put it there. She remembered the cursing. She remembered the screaming. And then China banished those thoughts from her mind and shrugged a delicate shoulder. "Nothing I couldn't handle," she replied, smoothly.

"He arrived not long after you left that day, banging on my front door. He fought his way through the few guards I stationed, made his way here, and I killed his pretty little wife as he entered. Nothing fancy, just a blade across the neck. The man had no time to react. The girl was watching, of course. You should have heard her scream."

China was silent.

"He got so angry, all that hatred in his eyes. It was quite laughable. He wanted to kill me up close- I knew he would- and I had placed a dagger so conveniently on this very table. The idiot didn't even question it. Jethro, my butler, got in a few hits to slow him down, but it didn't take very long for my concoction to do its job." Serpine patted his jacket where he had stashed the little vial. "Seconds to incapacitate, days to kill. It was over before it had even begun. I killed the child next, slowly, and then he wouldn't stop screaming at me so I tortured him until he shut up. We've had a great time since then, he and I."

China gazed into the back corner through the flickering shadows, at the lifeless lumps. "I only see two. Did you send the body to Mevolent so soon?"

Serpine laughed, but it was cold and cruel. "Oh no. No, no. That would be much too quick. This is the part of the job that I like. I enjoy this bit. No. He's just over there, very much alive."

Serpine waved his hand again and another torch lit, this time in the opposite corner, and China became aware of someone slouched heavily against the wall, head down. Serpine grinned, raised that red right hand, and Skulduggery Pleasant threw his head back and screamed in agony.

Serpine curled his fingers and the screams reached a new pitch, held for a few seconds, and then Serpine relaxed and Skulduggery slid sideways down the wall, gasping for breath.

"We've been doing this for the last few days, he and I. It's been a wonderful time, though I believe it's coming to an end. The poison is working through his blood, and I want to kill him before it gets the opportunity to finish its course."

China took a moment to answer. She didn't know Pleasant, not really. She did know he had been a good husband, a loving father, and a very, very well respected leader. They had interacted only once, before the conflict had erupted into full war, when he arrived with a peace squad, her brother among them, hoping to keep the church from joining Mevolent. This was before the Diablerie and they hadn't spoken. "What will you do with him after he's dead?"

Serpine shrugged. "I'm not sure yet. I hear some others are planning on doing a public burning, and I think I might do the same. Warnings are meant to be impactful, don't you think?"

"And you think this will be enough? Do you think that will weaken them?"

"Oh yes, my dear. Twelve of their most esteemed leaders and soldiers kidnapped, killed, and burned for all to see? That would weaken anyone. And Mevolent is so very good at taking advantage of weakness. I admire that about the man."

China heard the metal door slide open and the butler stepped into the room, moving to Serpine's side. He bowed slightly. "There is a messenger here, sir. From Vengeous. He says it's… sensitive information."

Serpine looked at China and she waved her fingers absently. "Please," she said, don't worry about me."

Serpine stood. "Thank you. I assure you this will take but a moment."

He led the way to the door, the butler following.

"Nefarian."

He stopped and turned his head, those emerald eyes reflecting the firelight.

"I'll take that glass of wine. If it's still available."

Serpine smiled, didn't reply, and the butler closed the door behind them.

She was alone now, and the crackle of the fire filled the silence as her gaze was pulled to the far corner where the lifeless bodies of Skulduggery Pleasant's family lay covered by dirty fabric. She was not one to feel remorse, certainly not towards heretics and enemies of the church. But there was something at the edge of her mind, threatening to force its way into her head, and she tried her hardest to keep it from entering.

A groan came from the other corner, and China turned her head to see Pleasant moving slightly. She applauded the man for his tenacity for struggle. He coughed, groaned again, and China realized he was trying to push himself onto his elbows. She looked at him, intrigued, and then with a flowing grace, unfolded herself from the chair and made her way slowly in his direction.

There was something wet on the ground, and as she got closer, she could see the blood in pools around Skulduggery and the heavy chain attached to his ankle. His delicate skin was marred with cuts, and it looked as though a few of the deeper gashes had been messily cauterized to stop the bleeding. She could see his dark eyes through his hair, sticky with blood, and they were clouded and unseeing. She shivered. This wasn't a man. Not anymore. This was a husk, a shell.

And then the husk lurched forward, a hand slick with blood and sweat gripping China's wrist. She took an instinctive step back, but the grip was surprisingly strong. She willed herself to look down, and she had to force herself to not immediately look away again when her eyes met the broken pair below her.

There was a sound, a strangled garble, and then it was cut off. He was trying to speak. Skulduggery tried again, and this time words slipped out, that velvet voice she remembered now rough and dry and pained.

"Please," he was saying, "my wife. Please."

China blinked. The grip was ice cold, but gentle, and it took all of China's resolve not to pull away.

"Please," Skulduggery repeated softly, "keep her safe."

China stared at him, unused to this feeling of speechlessness. The man was delirious. Forced to watch the torture and murder of his family and then tortured himself for hours on end, he had retreated to a place in his mind where there was still the hope of being rescued and forgotten that his family lay dead to the side. He didn't even know who he was begging for help. Skulduggery would not have begged to China Sorrows.

A sound came from behind her and China tore her wrist from Skulduggery's grasp and he slumped backwards, head hanging, as Serpine came through the door, his butler following with two glasses and a bottle of red wine. He looked between China and Skulduggery as he strode forward, eyes settling on her wrist and a smile spreading on his face. "I see you've been busy."

He neared, taking a cloth from his jacket and handing it to her. She took it gently and rubbed Skulduggery's blood from her skin.

"I wanted to see your work for myself."

Serpine gazed down, eyes glittering. "Pathetic, isn't it?" He nudged Skulduggery with his toe.

The butler arrived at their sides holding two glasses of wine and Serpine took them, handing one to China. "To our guests," he said, "and our future victory." They toasted, and China waited until Serpine took the first sip.

She wanted to leave. This room was starting to feel like a prison, though she knew she was a guest. She sipped her wine and Serpine showed her the tricks he had picked up on Skulduggery, and she tried to drown her thoughts.

Serpine did one last wave of his hand and Skulduggery curled on the ground in silent agony, and then went limp. Serpine sighed, as if content, and pulled a black glove from his pocket, slipping it over the exposed muscle of his right hand. "I suppose that's enough for this evening. Our wine is gone and our guest here isn't going anywhere." He turned to her. "You're certain you wouldn't prefer to take a room here for the evening? My staff would make your stay quite comfortable."

China had no desire to spend any more time in this man's company than she absolutely needed to, and she shook her head coolly. "I have a church to run, Nefarian. My followers are waiting for me."

He nodded and went to the chair, grabbing her cloak and handing it to her. China took it with her delicate fingers, and he led the way out of the room and back the way they had come, stopping in the foyer. He folded his hands behind his back as China did the clasp on her cloak.

"What is your next move," she asked, filling the silence and covering her eagerness to leave, "what will you do when this is all over?"

Serpine shrugged. "I'll do whatever Mevolent needs me to do. Vengeous is making a push in Poland, and I imagine Mevolent will want to make the most of any ground gained."

China nodded. "The Diablerie are granting our aid in that effort. By the gods it will be successful."

Serpine smiled that smile of his. "Yes, by the gods."

He didn't bother seeing her all the way out. He turned, disappearing into the castle as the butler opened the main doors. Her horse was waiting for her and she was left in darkness as she mounted and clicked her tongue, urging her steed forward. The wind was still howling and it whipped her cloak around her and they made their way past that dark lake. It was calm and black and looked as if it was waiting for something, to pull it deep down to the depths of hell.

China wondered if it was waiting for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These stories are being used as style practice, and I am always looking for feedback to better my writing. Please, let me know what you think!


	2. A Good Man, Dead at War

The 23rd of October, it was, when Skulduggery Pleasant's heart stopped beating. It wasn’t until the 27th when his body was placed on a pike amidst the other eleven of his comrades and burned for all to see, but by then rumors of his death had already been circulating. That was just the confirmation everyone needed.

He had known about his friend's capture but he had missed the burning of Skulduggery’s body by a day and a half. There had been a search party, gathered quickly and sent out to track down their men only hours after they had gone missing. The group had returned-- light on survivors but heavy with failure-- to a rattled battlefront, unsure of what to do next. The heaviness grew that day, and it had refused to leave since.

Ghastly Bespoke didn’t weep. He had stood, listening to the report and aware of the uneasiness that had settled on every soldier in their camp, and then turned, disappearing into his tent. His friend was gone, and he had work to do.

A drop of red fell onto the table.

Ghastly scowled and grabbed a cloth, pressing it to his finger. The white fabric was already stained the crimson red of blood in multiple places and Ghastly reclined in his chair, letting his head roll back to look at the roof of his tent. He rubbed the excess cloth between his other fingers. They were strong fingers, calloused and sturdy, and the soft cotton felt strange between them.

Ghastly never pricked his fingers. It was a meticulousness he had inherited from his father and honed through years of practice, but he couldn’t seem to find the needle among the cloth anymore. And when he did, his shaking fingers had trouble grasping it. He didn't like this. His hands constantly shaking, and the empty, gnawing void where his heart should be. But that’s how he felt, no matter how hard he tried to distract his mind. Ever since he had heard his friend had burned.

Ghastly cursed, dropped the cloth, and rubbed the heel of his hands into his eyes. 

He hadn’t left his tent since he had returned, but Ghastly knew what was happening on the outside. Morale, the last few years, hadn’t been higher. They had been winning. They had actually been winning this little war of theirs, and there had been an end-- too far to see yet, but still there-- approaching on the horizon.

Skulduggery had partially been the reason for that-- they all had. The resistance had made sweeping success, moving with a precision only seasoned tacticians could provide and fighting with a fervor of men who would lay their lives on the line for each other. Mevolent had been on the retreat.

But what Mevolent had lacked in strength of men, he made up for in cunning and strategy. This would have been in the works for years, Mevolent most likely the only one who had been able to see the whole picture, and orchestrating each individual player. In one fell swoop, he had taken the lives of twelve of their most trusted leaders and soldiers. If an attack such as that could come from someone in retreat, someone who was losing and with not even a warning, what else could they do?

The troops were scared. The uneasiness Ghastly had felt earlier would have permeated across the battlefront as news was spread. With a new vacuum of leadership, soldiers with little or no experience would be taking positions of power, unprepared for what lay before them. Those left, those like Meritorious, would be scrambling to restore some sort of order while maintaining their upper hand. Ghastly wondered how long they could hold out for.

There was a rush of cold air as the flap to Ghastly’s tent opened, and he became aware of someone entering. The flap closed, and Ghastly raised his head slightly. 

Hopeless stood just inside the entrance, coat pulled tight against the seeping chill and observing Ghastly silently. Ghastly let his hands fall to the table, making sure his right covered the bloody cloth as best he could, though he knew it would make no difference. It never did with Hopeless.

Hopeless had been the first to know as they had returned to camp. Ghastly had volunteered to join the search party, and he hadn't needed to force him to go along. They had been about a mile out from camp when Hopeless had said something was wrong. They had been about half a mile out when he had figured out what. He didn’t tell them.

Hopeless had known Skulduggery only a slightly lesser amount of time than Ghastly had. It was years before the war had broken out, and Ghastly and Skulduggery had saved him from a rather nasty tavern fight. He was not a man who instigated violence, that much had been clear, and it wasn’t until later that they had figured out what caused the scuffle. They had been a trio, since then, and had grown quite close. Hopeless wasn’t a man of much affection, and the two of them likely had been his only friends. He understood how Ghastly felt-- more so than most.

Which was exactly why Ghastly didn’t want him here right now.

Hopeless looked at him, face impassive, and Ghastly scowled and leaned back in his chair. 

“Stop that,” he said.

Hopeless’ face moved slightly, the corners of his eyes tightening. “You know I can’t,” he said, his voice soft. “I’m worried about you, Bespoke.”

Ghastly shook his head. “There are other things to be worried about. More important things.”

“I know how I’m feeling. And I know how you’re feeling. I have every right to be worried about you. He was my friend, too.”

“He was stupid,” Ghastly spat, suddenly angry, “and he was impulsive. If we were really his friends, he would have waited. We would have rushed in there, together, and then none of this would have happened.”

Silence rang out when he finished, and Ghastly immediately regretted his words. He knew they weren’t true. Skulduggery had cared about them just as much as they had cared about him. He was impulsive, that much was right, but he had also loved his family more than anything.

Hopeless nodded, seemingly content. The tent was quiet save for the sound of wind brushing through the seams.

“Does anyone know where he is?” Ghastly asked quietly. 

Hopeless didn’t respond.

“You must have found out,” Ghastly continued, “there’s no way you haven’t. Tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did. I know what you’re thinking, Bespoke. Don’t let Skulduggery’s death be in vain by throwing yourself at the feet of his killer.”

“The only thing I’ll be throwing are punches into Serpine’s face and his body off the roof of wherever the coward is hiding out.”

“I won’t let you do that.”

“And I won’t let you stop me.”

The tent was silent, and once again, Ghastly wished he could pluck his words out of the air and eat them. All the pent up anger he had been trying to ignore over the last few hours had bubbled to the surface, and he was taking it out on the one person who would understand his pain the most. Ghastly hated how he was feeling. He wished Skulduggery would break through the flap, launching some horrible joke that would undoubtedly lighten the mood and make everything right again.

Hopeless let out a long sigh and put his hands in his pockets. “I know,” was all he said.

They stayed there for a moment, and then Ghastly broke the silence. “So what’s next?”

“That’s why I’m here. I was going to let you have your space, but Corrival Deuce would like to speak with us.”

Ghastly nodded, balling the bloodied cloth beneath his hand and tossing it into the corner, and then stood.

Hopeless led the way. Soldiers, men Ghastly knew and men he didn’t, nodded to them as they passed, but they were quiet and solemn. There was tension in the air.

The main strategic headquarters for their company was bright and warm when they entered, lit by multiple balls of flame floating by the ceiling. The walls were covered with maps and the dirt floor was solid and well trod. There was a large wooden table in the center and three men looked up from the maps laid before them as Ghastly and Hopeless entered.

They both snapped to attention as Corrival Deuce was the first to acknowledge them. “Good evening, men,” he said, his voice tired, “at ease. You both know First Lieutenant Ravel, I assume,” and the man to Deuce’s left gave them a small nod. Ghastly had spoken to him only a few times before; Erskine Ravel had been one of Skulduggery’s fellow platoon commanders, and Ghastly returned the greeting.

“You’ve certainly heard of this man, here,” Deuce continued, nodding to the man on his right. “General Meritorious arrived just this morning.”

General Eachan Meritorious, Ghastly decided, was just as imposing as the stories made him out to be. His dark hair reflected the light and he had a meticulously cropped beard, kept tight along his strong jaw. He was tall and powerful, and he exuded an air of authority. His eyes were hard as he observed them.

“General,” Ravel said, speaking for the first time, “this is Private Ghastly Bespoke and Private Descry Hopeless.”

Ghastly snapped a salute and Hopeless did the same. Meritorious, for his part, simply nodded.

“I assume you understand why you are here, gentlemen,” Meritorious said, his voice deep and steady. He looked at them like he expected an answer.

“Because of the loss of first lieutenant Skulduggery Pleasant and second lieutenant Assail Frivolous, sir,” Ghastly responded, keeping his voice even.

“Among others,” Deuce added, “but yes. Two platoon commanders and two of my most esteemed soldiers, lost from one company. Our troops have taken quite the hit. Which is why we’ve called you here.”

Ravel spun the map on the table before them and pushed it towards Ghastly and Hopeless. They stepped closer and Ghastly could see areas of the map circled in black. Deuce tapped one, towards the bottom of the coast of Ireland. 

“We’ve tracked down five of the twelve locations where our men were taken captive, three of which are in Ireland. This one, here, is where Lieutenant Pleasant and his family were taken.”

Ghastly stiffened and resisted the urge to rip the map from the table. Hopeless glanced at him, but didn’t say anything.

“We’re sending squads to each of these locations to glean any sort of information we can regarding our enemies next moves,” Meritorious said. “They most likely have been evacuated, but there is still a large chance we could get lucky.”

“I volunteer,” Ghastly said. The three men didn’t look surprised.

“I supposed you might,” Deuce said. “You two were particularly close with Pleasant, if I understand correctly.”  
Ghastly didn’t say anything.

“I liked Pleasant, I really did,” Deuce continued. “He was a good man, and an even better soldier. I tried, many times, to promote him to a higher position where his skills could be better put to use, but he refused every time. Because of you two, I would imagine. I hope you won't do the same. I’d like to promote you.”

Ghastly blinked. “Why?”

Hopeless broke his silence. “They want us to fill those positions,” he said, and looked at Deuce. “I am not very well trusted among the men here, Commander.”

It was Meritorious’ turn to speak, “Your chosen discipline is still a secret, correct?”

“Only myself and Pleasant knew,” Ghastly answered for him, “and a few other choice individuals.”

“Myself and Ravel,” Deuce clarified, “but I’m sure rumors have spread. There’s only so many conclusions a man can come to when their companion always seems to find out information that would only be located in someone’s head. I understand, private. Bespoke, on the other hand, I hope you will consider.”

“We’re sending out two platoons from this company to a location on this map. Other companies will be covering the rest. Our platoons will be going to the castle where Serpine was last spotted. The job is to infiltrate, take any captives we can, find any information left behind, and then burn the place to the ground. Can we count on you to aid us in this effort, private Bespoke?”

Ghastly simply nodded.

“As of now,” Meritorious intoned in that deep voice, “I am promoting you to platoon commander. You will assume normal duties in the morning. In the meantime, Lieutenant Ravel will notify your men and we will contact you with information regarding your mission in the next few days. Thank you, gentleman. That will be all.”

He turned, attention leaving them and back to the table before him as Ghastly and Hopeless saluted and turned to leave, Ravel following. Ghastly held the flap for him, and all three of them stood outside, turning their collars up to the biting October winds.

Ravel was the first to speak.

“My condolences, on the loss of your friend. He was a good man.”

“Did they recover anything,” Ghastly asked, “after the burning?”

“No. We don’t know what they did with the remains, but they had cleared out by time our scouting squad had returned to alert us and they didn’t leave anything behind.”

“What about his family?”

Ravel shook his head. “I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

They started walking and Ravel was quiet for a moment. “I hope we get lucky,” he said, looking at the ground passing below them, “and he’s still there when we arrive.”

Ghastly didn’t respond. If the bastard was still there, he was sure as hell wasn’t ever going to leave alive. Ghastly would make certain of that.


	3. Ghost Stories, Part 1

Dexter Vex loved a lot of things. He loved the sun, a good mug of ale, and a warm bed. He loved adventures, stories, and he loved beautiful women. He especially loved beautiful women. There were, Dexter mused, very few things that he hated. Right now, however, Saracen Rue was one of them.

The man in question had come down from the rooms above, minutes earlier, into the already busy tavern looking rather bedraggled indeed. Dexter had immediately found this odd. It was odd, he concluded, because Dexter himself was fully rested and restored, seeing as it was the first time in months where the pair had their own rooms and a bed-- not a piece of hard dirt around a dwindling fire. It was something Dexter knew Saracen was particularly looking forward to.

But Saracen had clumped down the stairs, tired eyes scanning the tavern floor for his compatriot before settling on Dexter, and Dexter had taken in the disheveled blonde hair, the tired circles below the eyes, and the rumpled clothing that seemed to simply hang off him. Dexter observed him over the rim of his mug, eyebrow raised, as Saracen dumped himself in the chair adjacent, and grabbed the half eaten crust of bread in front of Dexter, tearing into it without gusto.

Dexter set the mug down, the golden ale swaying slightly. “You look rather worse for wear.”

Saracen simply grunted in response.

“Did you get in a fight with your pillow?”

He didn’t answer.

“Did you win? It doesn’t look like you won.”

Saracen took another bite of bread.

“Was it a nightmare, then?”

No response.

“Did you need to hold someone’s hand? You could have come and gotten me. I would have held your hand. I’ll hold your hand now, if you still need me to.”

This garnered a glare and Dexter grinned.

“I had,” Saracen said, defensively, “a perfectly fine night, thank you very much.”

Dexter leaned forward and tugged at the messy collar of Saracen’s jacket, and Saracen shrugged him off, a muffled “piss off” escaping around his mouthful of bread.

Dexter grinned, placing his elbows on the table.

“Did you sneak out last night? Did you go sneaking without me?”

“I didn’t sneak out.”

“It couldn’t have been a woman. Was it a woman? Did you get a lady?”

Saracen glowered at the significantly smaller lump of bread in his hands. “Stop asking me questions.”

Dexter laughed. “Oh, I get it now. You’re not being grumpy, you’re being stingy. Who was she? Where did you even find her? I didn’t see you speaking with any women last night except--”

He cut himself off mid sentence as he had looked up, catching sight of the beautiful woman he had set his eyes on the night prior step off the stairs. He had been chatting her up and Dexter had thought he had been doing a rather good job. He bought her a drink. He made her laugh. Saracen had been there, sure, but Dexter had his charm dialed all the way up. 

But then she had left and Dexter and Saracen had gone to bed.

The woman-- Aoife, Dexter recalled-- paused at the bottom of the steps, and looked over in their direction. She smiled, fingers waggled in a small wave, and Dexter looked at Saracen. The air of grumpiness was gone and his fingers waggled back at her in response, a stupid little smile on his face.

God, Dexter was going to kill him.

Saracen turned his attention back to the table, scanning its surface. He settled on the mug of ale and went to reach for it before noticing Dexter’s stare. He froze, hand halfway to the mug, that stupid little smile once again turning into a scowl.

“I can explain,” he said.

Dexter stared.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Still he stared.

Saracen nodded. “She was just so pretty, and I’ve been so lonely, you know? I couldn’t resist.”

“I was the one who bought her a drink.”

“And that was very nice of you, but--”

“I,” Dexter hissed, “bought her a drink. I was going after her. Was that not obvious enough for you?”

“Oh no, it was very obvious.”

“Then how-- and you better have a good answer for this-- did she end up in your room?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Saracen rubbed the back of his neck. “I came back down for some water, you know? And she was here. Back, I mean. We started talking again.”

“Over a glass of water? How lovely. How romantic.”

“Shut up. She mentioned how she didn’t have a place to stay tonight--”

“Oh my good Lord.”

“-- and I offered for her to stay with me.”

Dexter threw his hands up in disgust. Saracen looked particularly sheepish.

“I’ll find you someone tomorrow,” he said quickly. “After our job is finished. I promise.”

“So you can just steal them from me again?”

“I didn’t steal her,” Saracen replied, defensive. “I was being hospitable.”

“And getting lucky.”

He shrugged. “That was just a bonus. Are you going to finish your ale?”

Dexter pushed the half empty mug towards him and Saracen knocked it back, downing it in one go. The mug landed on the wooden table with a satisfying thump and he leaned back comfortably.

“So where are they, anyways? I figured they’d be here by now.”

Dexter didn’t respond and Saracen peered at him. “Are you pouting?”

Dexter thought about it for a moment. “No,” he decided. “And I don’t know where they are. If they aren’t here soon, we’re leaving.”

Soon, it turned out, was the amount of time it took Saracen to walk to the bar, order another drink, and then return. As he was sitting down, the heavy door to the tavern swung open and the faint chatter died slightly before returning to its original level. Glances were thrown, weight was shifted, and not one person made eye contact with the group as they slowly scanned the room.

There were four of them, ratted and beaten, eyes sharp. The smallest, a dirty little man, fidgeted as skittish eyes darted from face to face, his hands twitching and moving almost as fast as his face was. There was a woman to his right, tall and thin, skin as white as porcelain. Dexter observed her a moment longer. That wasn’t her skin, he decided, but a mask, smooth and white with dark holes where her eyes would be. Dark hair cascaded around her shoulders, and her head tilted slightly as the third person whispered in her ear. 

This man was obviously the leader of the bunch-- the dusty leather coat he wore struggling to contain the hefty bulk of his arms. He was grinning with a nonchalant ease that would only come from someone who shouldn’t be messed with, and never was. Dark edges of a curling tattoo were visible on his neck as he spoke to the woman next to him, and Dexter could see, even from his position on the far side of the room, the jagged scar that ran vertically from the man's right brow to above his ear.

The fourth member brought up the rear, and Dexter could glean nothing about their person. He didn’t need to. Looking at the dark robes, the hood, and the way the shadows seemed to dance at the bottom of the cloak told Dexter everything he needed to know.

The man finished whispering and the woman nodded. They paused a moment, and then that porcelain mask turned in their direction, and Dexter could feel the weight of that eyeless gaze settle on them. The tattooed man followed where she was looking, and that crooked grin widened.

Saracen breathed in as they moved towards them. “Please,” he said in a low voice, “tell me that’s not them.”

Dexter didn't respond.

A patron, a weaselly looking lad, dared a glance at the group as they passed, and the twitchy man pulled his teeth back and snarled at him. The boy physically jumped and swallowed, hurriedly returning to the set of cards in his hands.

The tattooed man reached their table first, the others stopping behind him.

“Ay,” the man said with a thick Scottish accent, “you the trackers we heard about?”

Saracen observed him. “Who’s asking?”

The man laughed, a hearty laugh that no one took seriously, and the twitchy man grinned. 

“Fair question!” Tattoo man thundered, and his hand landed heavily on the table, his other hand jamming his thumb into his chest. “The name’s Drane Sycophantic. You might have heard of me?”

“I can’t say I have. Everyone here seems to be quite afraid of you, Drane.”

Sycophantic laughed again. “That’s because I’m a bounty hunter! And most of these men,” he turned his head, “are all criminals. Ain't that right, barkeep?”

The barkeeper shuffled off, disappearing into the back. Sycophantic turned his grin back on them. 

“The antsy one,” he continued, thumb going over his shoulder, “we just call Twitch. The pretty lady in the mask is Paramnesia, and our friend in the cloak is known as Ephemeral Spoor. And you two are Dexter Vex and Saracen Rue.” His eyes traveled between them. “Not what I expected.”

Saracen cocked his head at the figure in the cloak and ignored the comment. “He’s a necromancer.”

Sycophantic nodded. “Sure is.”

“What’s a necromancer doing with a lot like you?”

“Making some good coin, just like the rest of us.”

“Necromancers don’t just wander around, especially now that they’ve declared themselves neutral.”

“What can I say? He’s special.”

Saracen’s hand floated down to rest on the firearm he had strapped to his thigh and Dexter kept his eyes on Sycophantic. The grin never left his face, but his eyes hardened at the movement. “Why don’t you tell us the truth,” Dexter said softly, “before my friend shoots.”

A voice drifted over Sycophantic’s shoulder, soft and cool. It took Dexter a moment to realize it was coming from the lady in the mask.

“Spoor left the temple of his own volition,” Paramnesia said, “do not pass judgement on a man you do not know.”

“The necromancers are cowards,” Saracen said, gun hand still resting in his holster.

“To which he agrees. Take your hand off your gun, Mr. Rue, so we may continue peacefully.”

Saracen hesitated, and then placed his hands on the table.

“Now,” Sycophantic said leaning forward, and the table groaned slightly beneath his weight, “why don’t we get to business? You gentlemen were needing some help?”

“No,” Saracen said.

“Yes,” Dexter corrected. Saracen glared at him.

“We’re tracking someone. A one Rumin Sundry.”

Paramnesia’s head moved slightly. “The mercenary?”

Dexter gestured for them to sit, and they pulled a few empty chairs from nearby and joined the pair at the table. Spoor remained standing, his face shrouded by that hood.

“Rumin Sundry is a hire to kill mercenary,” Dexter said once they were settled, “who, to our current knowledge, remained neutral in the war, doing jobs for whoever will pay him the most. Mevolent has Dreylan Scarab and had not yet hired Sundry, so because of the current conflict, bringing him in was hardly even a priority.”

“Until recently,” Paramnesia intoned. “The killings.”

Saracen nodded. “Twelve of our most trusted leaders and soldiers were assassinated a few months ago, and we have substantial evidence that Sundry was responsible for two of them.”

“Which means that Mevolent finally decided to hire this little killer,” Sycophantic said, “and you want to bring him in. What do you need us for, then?”

“Sundry is particularly hard to pin down,” Dexter said, “he’s an accomplished mercenary with considerable knowledge in the trade. His chosen discipline makes him all that much more… slippery to apprehend. We’ve been tracking him for the last two months, and we’ve pinned him just as many times before managing to make his escape.”

Sycophantic observed them, and Dexter met his gaze. If the man wanted confrontation, Dexter thought, he could have it. The larger man, on his part, dropped the grin.

“What is it,” Sycophant asked, leaning forward, “that you two do? You aren’t bounty hunters-- we would run in the same circles. And yet here you are, hunting down a killer.”

“Why does that matter?” Dexter asked.

“Because I want to know why you’re doing this. What your goals are, your hopes. What’s driving you. I want to make sure we’re not making a mistake.”

“You aren’t.”

“And yet that doesn’t answer my question.”

“We’re with the resistance,” Saracen said, “but we don’t do well as soldiers, so we do everything soldiers don’t do. And right now, that’s making those that harm our colleagues and friends pay.”

“You were friends with the person Sundry killed?”

“We knew them,” Dexter replied, “and we were close with others. In war, colleagues are often the only friends you have.”

“So you are seeking revenge,” came the soft voice of Paramnesia.

“We’re seeking retribution,” Dexter corrected.

“It is the same. All violence in the name of others is the same.”

“Not to us.”

The fidgety man, Twitch, spoke for the first time. His voice was high pitched and broken, moving too quickly for his mouth to catch up. “Don’t bother,” he said, breathily, “it’ll get him. He’ll get what's coming.”

Sycophantic shot him a glare and the little man grinned at him. 

Dexter frowned. “Who’ll get him?”

Sycophantic shook his head as Twitch leaned forward. His breath came in quick little gasps and his eyes gleamed. “The apparition. It’ll get him. It got the others. It’ll get him, too.”

Saracen shook his head slightly. “Apparition?”

Sycophant sighed. “My compatriot here is referring to the… the…”

“Apparition,” Twitch insisted.

“Fine. He’s talking about the apparition that’s supposedly been spotted recently. Apparently, there’s been what some say a... skeleton of fire appearing on the battlefield, leaving destruction in its wake, and then disappearing just as quickly. There’s only been a few who’ve allegedly seen this, but the rumors have spread. Rumors spread easy in a time of unrest.”

“This is news to us,” Dexter said. “Why haven’t heard anything about this?”

“From the sounds of it, you two are a little out of the proverbial loop. This is front lines stuff, and like I said, it’s all very recent.”

“How recent?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Two weeks? Three, at the most?” Sycophantic crossed his arms on the table, his voice lowering. “You know what I think? I think it was some old sod pushed too far, seeing things that aren’t there. You’ve got men with their minds already a bit warped by all that shooting and fighting and dying they have to do, listening to these stories and trying to make sense of what they have to live through every day. I think the only apparition out there is in the minds, and the mind can play such cruel tricks.”

Twitch shook his head quickly. “No. No. It’s real. I know it. I’ve seen--”

“You haven’t seen shit, Twitch. We’re not here to share ghost stories. We’re here for a job, and it’s time we get back to that.” Sycophantic looked back at Dexter. “I apologize for my friend here, he can be rather skittish. Can’t blame him, I guess, considering our world right now.”

Dexter nodded, unsure of what to say next. Saracen, for his part, kept his eyes on Twitch.

“I would hope,” Paramnesia said, “that you called for us with a plan? That we are not sitting here wasting our time?”

Saracen tore his eyes away from Twitch. “You would be correct. While I don’t believe we need the help, I suppose I can’t argue that your aid will be beneficial. We have your payment with us on completion of the job.”

“And you will compensate us for any additional obstacles we may encounter?”

“Naturally,” Dexter replied.

Sycophantic nodded slowly, that crooked grin reappearing on his face. “Then fill us in, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little short, but it was either cut it off here or have a super long chapter. The next one will be up relatively soon and we'll finally be getting to some action.
> 
> And possibly a few surprises. You never know with ghost stories.


	4. Ghost Stories, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah! Two chapters, almost back to back? Amazing.

The rest of their meeting had been productive, and Dexter walked away with Saracen feeling more optimistically positive than he expected to. They had gone over specifics of their plan, and the group had listened with a professionalism that had surprised him. The necromancer, Spoor, had never sat down.

Dexter had told them where they had tracked Sundry. It was an old boarding house just south of the tavern where they were, a few blocks from the edge of town. They were sure that Sundry had no idea Dexter and Saracen were so close on his heels, but, if by chance that he did know, they were certain he wouldn’t try to make his escape by day. Instead, he would wait until nightfall, where he could slip away under the cover of darkness and lose them in the surrounding woodland.

Which is why, Dexter informed them, that would be exactly where they would wait for him.

“How do you know he’ll even leave tonight?” Sycophantic had asked. “We could be sitting out there for nothing.”

“You lot are used to barging in and wrangling up your bounties,” Dexter had said, “we’re trying to be a bit more subtle. Sundry will be leaving tonight. If he knows we’re here, he’ll be leaving to evade us. If he doesn’t know we’re here-- and I don’t think he does-- he’ll be leaving because he knows it’s not smart to stay in any same place for too long.”

Dexter had made sure to have the group fill them in on their magical disciplines, and Dexter could see why their little party worked so well. Spoor was self explanatory, and as much as Dexter hated to admit it, would be incredibly useful. Twitch was rather straight forward. He had, as Sycophantic had described ‘sticky fingers.’ The man could draw metallic objects to his fingertips at will, which meant disarming opponents became laughably easy. The larger the object, the more fingers he needed. But for most weapons, he said, he only needed to point.

Paramnesia had revealed the reason for her porcelain mask along with revealing her magic. She was a shifter, capable of becoming absolutely anyone in a matter of seconds. As a result, she had started to forget what her real face was and tended to wear the mask unless using her power. Dexter didn’t ask what forgetting one’s face looked like, and she didn’t offer an answer. Sycophant had then described himself as a magiphage, a sorcerer capable of draining another's power and placing it in an object. He couldn’t use the power for himself, he admitted, and the power would return to the sorcerer at one point and the magic faded from the object at another. But by then, they usually had caught the guy and he was lounging in a bound cell, anyways.

Dexter liked their odds. They were certainly better than they had been the last few weeks. 

He rolled up his bedroll and tucked it away into his pack. This had been their main focus for the last few months, doing more than their level best to be successful, but Dexter had wanted to go after Serpine, not Sundry. He had wanted to go after Serpine, Dexter knew, not for retribution, but for revenge. He had met with Skulduggery Pleasant a few times through Ghastly Bespoke, and he and Saracen had gone on to join them on a few missions. Dexter had met Skulduggery’s wife. Met his daughter. He had eaten with them, in their home. He wouldn’t go so far as to call Skulduggery his friend, but he was his colleague, and that was the same thing.

Dexter and Saracen hadn’t spoken about it. Dexter had known others who had been killed, and he knew Saracen did as well, yet they didn’t talk about it. They had mourned, silently and in their own way, and then got back to business.

Serpine had been off the table. It had been discovered after a siege on his hiding place that he had withdrawn back to Mevolent’s side, and it was too risky to send anyone in to try and get him. Dexter and Saracen had been assigned to Sundry instead, and Dexter had turned his anger upon this new target.

They had managed to pin Sundry twice before, and twice before he had managed to escape. The first was outside of Waterford-- Saracen and Dexter had taken him by surprise, and after a drawn out battle, Sundry slipped away from them. Dexter and Saracen were left to lick their wounds and resume following him.

The second time was in the middle of nowhere towards the coast of Ireland. Sundry had led them out there in an attempt to lose them which backfired and led to another confrontation. Sundry had slipped away again.

It was all very frustrating.

It was frustrating, Dexter thought, because he knew that they could take Sundry, and they could take him on easily. Sundry, however, had an extreme advantage, and Dexter knew they would need help. He had lied when he had spoken to the bounty hunters in the tavern earlier that morning-- Dexter had heard of Drane Sycophantic, and that was why he had reached out to him when Dexter had found out they were in the area. He was well renowned, good at his job, and regarded as a fairly straightforward guy. Dexter didn’t want to be worried about being double crossed, and if the bounty hunter trusted his little group, that was good enough.

Saracen didn’t like the idea of hiring help, but he didn’t oppose it. Dexter guessed he was tired of losing to the same guy and wanted to have a go on a level playing field.

The level playing field, in this case, was at the edge of the woods at the southern end of town. The idea was that Sundry wouldn’t try to leave the same way he came in, and he certainly wouldn’t try to traverse wide and open areas. So he would head to the forest, where he had the cover of trees and darkness. Just in case this wasn’t how that played out, Dexter had positioned Spoor around the inn, keeping an eye from the shadows on anyone who left. If he noticed anything, he would shadow walk, report it, and then shadow walk back, stalling Sundry until the others could arrive.

If Dexter was correct, however, they would be waiting for him just past the edge of the forest, ready to ambush. It was there, a few hours later, that Dexter found himself, fighting off a shiver of cold and kneeling on the damp grass next to Twitch.

They had broken up into groups to ensure that Sundry didn’t get past them: Dexter, with his ranged energy throwing and Twitch with his magnetism, Sycophantic at the edge of town waiting to join Spoor-- Sycophantic could ambush Sundry and drain him of his magic while Spoor kept him busy with frontal attacks-- and Paramnesia and Saracen taking the right flank. The plan, in theory, would be swift and effective. In practice, however, Dexter had learned to never be too hopeful.

Dexter rubbed his hands against the cold as the moon slowly began to peek over the top of the buildings, the chill seeping deep into his bones and throttling any warmth before it reached them. Twitch didn't seem to be bothered, his eyes flitting through the darkness, hands wringing themselves around each other. It was cold, and it was quiet.

Dexter was curious.

“Twitch,” he said softly, and Twitch’s eyes flashed in the gloom before darting away again, “what did you mean when you said you saw that apparition?”

Twitch ceased his movements for a split second, and then resumed. “I meant what I said. I saw him.”

“Him?”

“Yes.”

“What did you see? What do you know about it?”

Twitch shrugged. “More than Sycophantic. He’s scared. We all are. Mevolent’s making big moves. Fear is everywhere.”

“What does that have to do with this ghost?”

Twitch shook his head again. “Not a ghost. Just looks like one.”

Dexter scanned the area before them. He couldn’t see where Saracen and Paramnesia had hidden themselves, and Sycophantic hadn't made a move. Twitch shifted.

“He speaks, you know.”

Dexter looked at him surprised, and Twitch continued.

“There are bounties on some of the weaker mages involved in those killings. Fourteen confirmed, general bounties on six of them. No bounties on Serpine, Scarab, a few others, and Sundry. We went after one. Aught Bagatelle, and we were close, too. We had split up, like we are now. Cutting off escape routes. Bagatelle came in my direction.”

Twitch went silent for a moment and Dexter realized this was the most calm he had seen the man so far.

“That’s when he came,” Twitch continued. “No noise. No fire. Bagatelle saw him, tried to run, but couldn’t. It was like he was frozen. The thing was covered in rags, torn clothing, and it just walked up to Bagatelle and stood there like death itself. And then it spoke.”

“What did it say?”

“It wanted Bagatelle to tell him where Serpine was,” Twitch said, and Dexter froze.

“Bagatelle wouldn’t talk, just kept shaking his head, and then the thing reached down. Lit him on fire. Bagatelle screamed. Said he didn’t know anything. Begged. Then it just… turned and walked away. I didn’t see where it went. Bagatelle was all burned and I told everyone what I saw, but they didn’t believe me. Didn’t want to, I think.”

Dexter found his breath again. “When was this? Where?”

“A week ago. About 20 miles north of here. We got your request shortly after that.” Twitch swallowed. “I think it’s him. The one Nefarian Serpine killed. I think he’s hunting all those involved, working through them until he gets to him. Gets his revenge.”

“Skulduggery Pleasant is dead,” Dexter said, “I knew him. That’s not him. He wouldn’t do that.”

Twitch looked at him, and for a moment, Dexter could see the pain in the little man’s eyes. “Death and war,” he said softly, “can change you.”

There was a grunt and Dexter snapped his head around in time to see Sycophantic hit the ground and tumble, landing a few yards from them. Dexter swore, went to stand, and then something struck him in the back and he went forward, stumbling into the dirt, gasping for breath. He turned, scrambling to his feet, as a man strode from the darkness. Twitch was on the ground, not moving, and Dexter took a few steps back to catch his breath.

The man was sturdy and about Dexter’s height. He had a mess of hair, dirty from travel and lack of care, and it hung limply over the blue eyes that pierced the darkness. Rumin Sundry walked towards Dexter, and as he watched, two more Sundry’s emerged from the gloom behind him.

“I decided,” Sundry announced, gazing at Dexter, “that I was tired of being followed. I decided I was going to kill you and end my problem, but it was just my luck you went and hired help.”

“Turn yourself in,” Dexter said, raising his hands, “and we won’t have to hurt you.”

Sundry smiled a sick little smile. “But I was so looking forward to hurting you.”

He moved, suddenly, with a kick that went for Dexter’s knee, but Dexter was ready for it, pivoting out of the way and his hand lighting up, catching Sundry in the chest with a shot of energy. The other two Sundry’s started forward, and then Saracen was there, launching himself from the shadows and tackling the one on the right. They went down, and Dexter fired another shot at the third. 

He could hear a scuffle behind him but he didn’t have a chance to look around before the first Sundry was coming at him again. Dexter’s first energy shot hadn’t been particularly strong, but the second had been, and the Sundry that it hit landed on the ground with a thump before disappearing.

Dexter paid this no mind and instead focused on his opponent before him. This was the reason Sundry had managed to make his escape so many times before. He could make copies of himself, let them loose, and then disappear while the fighting was going on. The copies couldn’t make more of themselves, but they were just as fast and just as strong as the original, which made taking down more than one or two all that more difficult.

Dexter ducked under another swing, and lashed a strike into Sundry’s side and then another into his chest. Sundry grunted in pain, and then his hands were on him, and Dexter was flipped to the ground. He felt a boot connect with his gut, and then Saracen was behind Sundry, wrapping his arm around his throat, the copy he had been fighting already dealt with. Dexter scrambled up, once again, and looked around him.

Spoor and Sycophantic stood a few feet away, Sycophantic gasping for breath and Spoor’s cloak curling with shadow. Dexter joined them as seven more Sundry’s detached themselves from the darkness.

“This would have worked quite well,” one Sundry said, picking at something on his sleeve, “if I hadn’t decided I was going to wait and kill you. You might actually have beaten me. But now you’ve lost your element of surprise, and I have more friends than you do.”

“Why’d you do it,” Dexter called, stalling for breath and praying for Twitch to recover. 

Sundry shrugged, his copies standing perfectly still. “Money. I got paid well.”

“They were innocent men and women. People with families.”

“Now, you and your little resistance friends think they’re innocent. But to Mevolent and his lot, they’re quite the nuisance. It really depends on your perspective, doesn’t it?”

The Sundry that spoke cocked his head and the copies moved forward. Almost too quick to register, the one to Sundry’s left spun, heel flashing in an ark towards his chest, impossibly fast. Sundry grunted and the copy twisted, shifting their weight to the other foot and snapping out another kick. Dexter watched, amazed at the speed and precision, and then Sundry caught the kick, twisted, and they could all hear the crack as Paramnesia dropped to the ground, screaming.

“That’s all well and good,” Sundry said, pulling a knife from his cloak and looking down at her as his features on her face began to shift and refused to settle, “but I was expecting that. I only made five copies. I should know.”

Sycophantic and Spoor moved together, and Dexter got his first look at the duo in action. Sycophantic, while not having any combative magic, was obviously an experienced fighter. He barged into the first copy as it came forward to intercept them, flipping it over his shoulder and then threw a punch that rocked the second copy’s head back. A third grabbed his coat, but instead of slipping out of it, Sycophantic planted a foot and spun, pulling the copy off its feet. He settled into a stance as the first two came at him again.

The last two copies moved to stop Spoor as he rushed them. Without slowing, he gave a little jump, and then he was climbing, straight into the air. It took Dexter a moment to realize that it wasn’t the cloak where Spoor had stored his power, but his boots. He ran, climbing steps of shadow that disappeared as soon as he left them, and leaped over the heads of the copies, twisting as his foot sliced through the air, sending a blast of shadows towards Sundry’s head. Sundry scowled and dodged, but then Spoor landed, his cloak billowing and a sheet of shadow exploding from his feet and sweeping across the ground. It knocked into Paramnesia, pushing her out of the way and it hit the feet of an off balance Sundry, sending him tumbling to the ground. Spoor kicked upwards, a trail of shadow extending from his toe that caught Sundry under the chin and lifted him up before he even hit the ground from the previous attack. It was, Dexter had to admit, very badass.

And then there was an explosion of sound and a bullet smashed into Spoor’s shoulder from behind.

Dexter cursed, raising his hands and Saracen rushed forwards. One of the copies Spoor had launched himself over held a gun and he swung it around to face Sycophantic. The man swore and tried to get close, but the three he had been fighting blocked his way. Dexter fired a shot as Saracen reached them.

This was bad. How Sundry had managed to get past Spoor, Dexter didn’t know. He probably sent a copy out to distract anyone who was watching, hoping to attack them from behind, and Spoor had followed it like he had been asked. 

That didn’t matter now. In their haste to save their partner, Sycophantic and Spoor had assumed the one with the knife was the real Sundry and attacked. Now Twitch, Spoor, and Paramnesia were down, and Sundry was still standing, not even a little worse for wear. This was bad.

Saracen took on the pair with the gun, and Dexter’s suspicions that the Sundry who shot was the real man was confirmed as he sank back, letting the copy meet Saracen. Dexter watched as another copy materialized next to Sundry. He fired, energy having been charging the moment Saracen had rushed forward, and sheared through the newcomer. Sundry scowled and backed off even more, and it took a moment for a new copy to materialize.

There were two possibilities to how Sundry’s power worked. When it was just Saracen and Dexter, they couldn’t fight their way through the copies fast enough to test his theories, but now, with more of them, Dexter made sure to pay attention.

The first possibility was that Sundry had a set time limit between when he made a copy and when he could make another. If this was the case, Sundry would routinely be able to make copies as they were destroyed, if granted enough time between each creation. The second possibility was that Sundry could only make so many copies before needing to rest. If that was the case, Dexter hoped they were getting close.

Dexter, skilled though as he was, usually filled the role of support, throwing energy at opponents from a distance and keeping them off balance. Saracen, his discipline still a secret to Dexter, relied heavily on hand-to-hand combat. It was an effective match-up, and so when Saracen threw an elbow that smashed into the copy’s face and grabbed a flailing arm, spinning it around him, Dexter was ready to blast it in the chest with a stream of energy. The copy disappeared and Sundry growled. No new copy appeared.

This was their chance. Sundry was on his last legs. Sycophantic had been holding his own against the three copies and he was on his knees as Saracen turned to help him and Dexter shifted his attention to Sundry. His hands started to glow, charging a shot that would knock Sundry off his feet and give Dexter a chance to get close enough to render him unconscious or give Sycophantic a chance to touch him and drain his magic. They were almost there. They had him. Dexter ran at him, raising his hands, preparing to fire.

And then a wall of force slammed into him like a brick wall.

Dexter went airborne and he felt his body go weightless, and then his world rocked, the ground slamming into him from the side and his head crunching into the dirt. He lay there, dazed, short on breath, and struggling to make sense of what happened. Did Saracen do that, trying to get him out of the way of something? Or was it Spoor? Dexter hadn’t seen any shadows.

His head spun and Dexter groaned as he tried to get his arms beneath him, lifting himself from the dirt and looking around. The copies had all disappeared and Saracen and Sycophantic were both on the ground. Sundry had been blasted a good twenty yards from Dexter, now only a dark shape strewn across the dirt. Dexter-- head still spinning-- looked for signs of an explosion, any sort of marks on the ground. Nothing.

Saracen coughed and rolled over. Sycophantic grunted a response to something Saracen said, and Dexter went to call out to them, but froze.

There was something at the far side of the woods, something tall and ghostly, moving through the gloom. Dexter stared as the shambles of a man, a skeleton dressed in rags over its dusty bones, moved out from the trees.

A strangled noise came from Sycophantic as he caught sight of the skeleton and Saracen looked back at Dexter, eyes wide. The skeleton walked, in no apparent hurry, towards Sundry, who was on his hands and knees now, struggling to breathe. The skeleton stopped and kicked, and Sundry went sprawling again. He hit the ground and spat blood, eyes turning to glare at whoever struck him. Then those eyes widened and Dexter could see, even from where he was, all of the color draining from Sundry’s face.

“No,” Sundry whispered, trying to scramble back, “please.”

The skeleton didn’t answer, but placed a foot on Sundry’s coat, keeping him from moving. Sundry whimpered.

The jaw unhinged and a voice came out, dry and hollow and clipped. “Tell me,” the skeleton said, “where Nefarian Serpine is.”

Sundry whimpered again. Tears were streaming down his face, and if Dexter hadn’t been as terrified as he was, he would have thought it pathetic.

“Please,” Sundry repeated, “don’t kill me.”

There was a moment of stillness only broken by Sundry’s ragged breathing. And then the skeleton clicked the bones of its fingers, generating a flame, and let it drop onto Sundry. He screamed, trying to tear off his clothes as the flames ate at the flesh beneath, but the skeleton kicked his hands away. Dexter felt like he would be sick as he scrambled to his feet.

“Where,” the skeleton asked, “is Nefarian Serpine?”

“I don’t know!” Sundry screamed, curling in agony. “I don’t know!”

Dexter took a step forward, struggling to find his voice. “Hey,” he said, but it came out quiet and strangled. “Hey!” he repeated, stronger this time.

The skeleton remained still, but its head turned to Dexter and then moved back slightly, as if in surprise. Dexter started walking forward and the skeleton observed him before waving its hand. The flames on Sundry went out. Dexter became aware of a hand on his ankle-- Saracen had reached out as he passed, stopping him.

The skeleton's heavy gaze moved, drifting back to Sundry moaning on the ground, and then it turned, walking back the way it came. Dexter watched it as it disappeared into the darkness of the trees without another word.

xXx 

They made it back into town without incident. The three still standing-- Saracen, Dexter, and Sycophantic-- each carried one of their fallen colleagues. Sycophantic was quiet as he helped lay each of them on the floor of Dexter’s room and none of them spoke of what just transpired.

Paramnesia refused any sort of care before she aided Spoor. Her mask was on by the time Sycophantic had helped her to stand on her good leg, and she sat delicately, careful of her broken leg. It was her shin, she informed them, and she was going to be fine. Spoor, on the other hand, had been shot just below his shoulder. The cloak he wore must have deterred Sundry’s aim, because he was lucky that it missed his lungs and his heart. The leathers he wore meant that the wound was shallow, and Paramnesia was able to retrieve the bullet and sew him shut.

Twitch woke halfway through with two black eyes, a broken nose, and a head injury. Apparently, he had heard someone approaching from behind and turned, receiving a fist to the face and an elbow to the chin as a result, knocking him out cold.

Dexter, Saracen, and Sycophantic fared much better, though Dexter could feel the stiffness creeping in and the ache of his muscles as bruises began to blossom across his skin. Sundry, on the other hand, had extensive burns across his shoulders and back, and he still hadn’t woken up.

It wasn’t until Paramnesia had finished with Spoor that anyone said anything. According to Paramnesia, she and Spoor hadn’t been affected by whatever blast had rocked the others. Dexter guessed it was the skeleton, probably thinking it didn’t need to knock back anyone who was already knocked down. Paramnesia had been treating Spoor as soon as he was hit, and speaking for the first time, Spoor informed them that he heard, but didn’t see, everything that occurred.

Twitch was the only one who didn’t have a clue. Sycophantic told him in hushed tones and Dexter, leaning against the far wall with his arms crossed and head down next to Saracen, watched as Twitch’s leg jiggled faster and faster as Sycophantic told the story. He finished and Twitch didn’t say anything. He just stood and left, closing the door after him as he went. They found him in the bar later that night, asleep and smelling of alcohol.

Dexter and Saracen left with Sundry the next morning. Sycophantic informed them that they would be staying in town for a while longer to give Paramnesia and Spoor time to heal. Dexter paid him for their service, and then he paid for the next week of their stay. Sycophantic had taken the money graciously, and didn’t ask for anything else.

They had said their goodbyes to Paramnesia and Spoor from the doorway of their room, and Sycophantic and Twitch followed them out.

“What about you two?” Sycophant asked, gazing down the street. “What will you do next?”

“Bring Sundry to the sanctuary in Ireland,” Dexter replied. “That’s where we were asked to go.”

“That new sanctuary, eh? I hope they know what they’re doing with those.”

“I have faith.”

Sycophantic nodded his head. They stood there, the four of them and their captive, in silence. 

“If you ever need us,” Saracen said finally, “just let us know.”

A grin spread across Sycophantic’s face, but it was shallow and somber compared to the night before. “Likewise. We could use more men like you in our profession.” 

He hesitated. “Will you do anything? About the… apparition, I mean?”

“I’m not sure,” Dexter replied softly, “I don’t know what there is to do.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll kill Serpine for us. And then maybe it’ll just disappear back to wherever it came from.”

“Your necromancer friend, Spoor. Did he sense anything?”

Sycophantic shook his head. “If you’re asking if that was the work of the necromancers, I’m afraid we have nothing for you. Spoor couldn’t sense any death magic. He just felt… death.”

They had left them then, after shaking hands and saying their farewells. Dexter and Saracen had prepared their horses in silence, slinging Sundry over the back, and left. The town was quiet in the cold, and everything was held in the grasp of a thick layer of frost that twinkled and reflected the grey light of the morning. 

“Do you think,” Saracen started as they passed the edge of the town. “Do you-- what do you think that was?” 

The question hung heavy in the air, clinging to them like the frost that covered any indication of their battle the night before. Dexter thought about it, remembering that unfeeling voice, those empty eye sockets, and didn’t answer.

He looked, instead, through the trees, looking for perhaps the only ghost story that really mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be leaving Dexter and Saracen here for a bit, but we'll come back to them.
> 
> Originally, Sycophantic and his gang were supposed to betray Dexter and Saracen and attempt to take Sundry for their own, only to have certain apparition friend of ours kill them when they try to prevent him from getting to Sundry. I may have slightly come to really LIKE Sycophantic and the rest, and couldn't bring myself to write that. I do have back stories on all of them, but this really wasn't the place to discuss them.


	5. The House Called Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended listening: The Downfall by Rupert Gregson-Williams, to help create the ambiance I had while writing.

There was a house, in the hills, somewhere in Ireland. It had been, for a brief time, a home, but home is a title received only by a house fulfilling its purpose. A home means warmth, peace, and safety. Clean beds, lively inhabitants, and a gentle welcome when you return. These were things it once had, but now only the memories of them drift through the halls like motes of dust. This house-- a simple shell-- now only sits, empty and stagnant and alone.

It had been built a house, had become a home, and then it had turned to a house once again when its inhabitants had been taken away. No one lived there, but for a period of time, people came and people left. At first, it was a man. He didn’t stay long; just came, searched, and went. The next was a group, but they didn’t do much more than their predecessor. Like him, they came, they searched, and they went.

It was a few weeks (though there wasn’t really a way for the house to know) until the next visitors. It was a group, this one larger than the one before, and they were dressed in black and carried candles. The men spoke in soft voices and the women dabbed at their tear stained cheeks beneath their delicate veils and children clung to their parents. People milled, candles were lit, and then people went. A few stayed, heads down in respect, but then they, too, left. A wake, one might have called it. 

The house called it nothing.

People came, a few times after that, with questionable intentions. They broke the windows, scourged the rooms, took what they could carry, and then they left. The house became emptier, but those walls were not concerned with the items it held.

No one came for a long time after that. The fall chill soon gave way to winter freeze and harsh wind blew through the empty carcass. When it was dark, it was pitch, and when it was light, it was gloom. Rain ate at the carpets, snow tore at the walls, and still the house stood, silent and empty.

War raged in the countryside around it. If the house had any interest at all, it would have felt the tremors of the ground, would have seen the smoke billowing on the horizon, and it would have tasted the sick, coppery taste of blood on the breeze. But the house did not have any interest, and so it knew none of this.

All houses, if you dare to look hard enough, are haunted. Every house, even those that were never truly a home, contain their ghosts; though very few hold true spirits. The ghosts, in this house, were a breeze, a whisper, the sound of rain falling on the porch, and a chair sitting empty in the corner. The ghosts were the memory of a child running the halls, a warm room, a dinner table heavy with the recollection of meals past. The ghosts were a laugh, a lie, and a story that hung heavy in the air long after it was ever spoken.

It was not a spirit that arrived at the door of this house months later, nor was it a man-- not really. But it was heavy with the ghosts of regret and sadness and memory and it stood, gazing at the weather worn walls. Despite the harshness of winter, the grasses and greenery of a once tenderly cared garden were spilling over onto the dirt pathway and vines were beginning their slow creep up the unfeeling visage. The front door long ago had been prised open and the windows shattered so they now gaped like ugly open wounds. This house had not been a home for a long while, and its newest visitor had no intention of changing that.

They approached and they entered and they stood, looking down the short hallway to where a once sturdy table sat. The thing, as they often thought of themselves, stayed there a moment before moving, reaching out a hand impervious to the cold and running it along the wall as they walked. That once sturdy table now sat broken and it looked as though something, at one point or another, had been slammed into it. There were scorch marks along the far wall and there were bloodstains on the floor. The visitor observed these, silently, and then turned and climbed the stairs.

The steps sagged, but only slightly, as the weight of a memory of a man moved slowly up them and into the short hallway beyond. There were two doors and the visitor seemed to hesitate before peering into the one to their left. It was small, unsurprising of a house of this size, and wrecked. The window was closed and the curtains drawn, but a stream of grey light seeped through a gap and cut through the gloom. The feeble bed had been pulled apart and the dresser drawers hung open. A few clothes items were strewn on the floor, and any objects of value had been hastily carried away. There were many ghosts in here, and the visitor didn’t linger.

They turned, instead, to the room across the hall. This one was slightly larger than the last, but only just. A bed sat lonely in the middle, and like the other, had been carelessly torn apart. This dresser lay on its side, clothes haplessly thrown upon the wood floor and the drapes were missing. There were many ghosts here, too, but the visitor ignored them, moving to the small desk that sat on the left wall.

If there had been any items of value in this house, it was here where they would have rested. The desk, in all actuality, was a small homemade jewelry stand and if the visitor had looked, they would have found a small inscription, to and from, with love, on the bottom of the uppermost drawer. But the visitor didn’t look. They didn’t need to. They already knew it was there.

The desk had been mostly emptied and the visitor stopped short of it, avoiding the mirror that still sat perched on top, cracked as though it was. There was nothing here of value, and even if the visitor were hoping for such things, nothing would have stopped them from taking them. The house, as you know, had no interest in the items it held.

A few trinkets sat in the bottom drawer, the visitor could see, because the bottom drawer sat open. A hand moved, closed it gently. The hand lingered, fingers pressed against the wood, and then they trailed upwards, curling around the handle to the top drawer. It slid out, as smoothly as the day it was made, and the hand dipped inside, appearing again with a long chain. It dangled from the visitors' grip as they gazed at the small pendant in their palm.

Several ghosts gripped the visitor at once as a thumb pressed down and the locket sprang open, revealing the inscription inside. To keep me with you, it read. The object itself was worth nothing, but those words held a weight much heavier than any coin. The visitor didn’t have any pockets to speak of, so they gently wrapped the chain around the mockery of a wrist, securing the locket to them.

Either satisfied with their work or desperate to escape the clutching shadows of the past that plagued them, the visitor turned and strode from the room and down the stairs. They paused, once again, in the doorway and then once more on the pathway outside. The house didn’t notice. It had no reason to.

This house had not felt the warmth of a home for some time and it wouldn’t feel the warmth of a home any time soon, so when the flames began lapping against the walls like a dog desperate for water, the house felt nothing. And even when the house was consumed, puffing dark smoke into the sky and groaning with the multitude of ghosts that burned along with it, the house itself remained as silent and cold as ever. 

The visitor had left long before the last piece of wood stopped glowing and even longer still before the last dredge of smoke drifted away on the breeze still tainted with blood.

There was, as you now know, a house, in the hills, somewhere in Ireland. It had been built as a house, it had lived as a home, and it had died as a house once more. The grass overtook the space where it had once stood, its ashes lending itself to fertile soil where flowers and greenery could grow unhindered. The breeze could flow without pause, and the ground was still and silent. You could find this place, if you really looked, and if you stayed there, feeling the wind and tasting the air, you could hear the ghost of the house, whispering its memories, for the house doesn’t mind who listens. 

And the house has no reason to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH BOY am I proud of this one. I don't know if it was because of the musical ambiance I had going on, or the fact that I was writing from the perspective of the house, but the words just flowed. Usually, I write the story, let it sit, and then come back and do significant editing. I did maybe ten minutes of editing here, and mostly it was fixing repetitive word choice. What I wrote is what I wrote.
> 
> I know this short story is mostly atmospheric, so it might not be to everyone's tastes, but I think it's important to the story I'm trying to tell here and the theme I'm trying to create. A note: all of these stories are in chronological order. 
> 
> A huge thank you to mielipieli and big_ball_of_anxiety_and_cake for the continued and consistent support-- even if it's just you two reading this, it's enough to make me want to keep writing it. Thank you for the motivation. 
> 
> To cake: I hadn't thought about adding a chapter about the bounty hunters, mainly because I'm trying to keep this fic in a more streamlined, uniformed style. We might see the bounty hunters again, but they're not a focus of the story. That being said, I wouldn't be opposed to writing a separate fic where they feature, because I do have a few ideas of some SP characters they might have previously encountered.


	6. Shell Shocked Men

Serpine had slipped away long before they ever arrived. The castle had been cold and quiet, and the group had approached silently and methodically. The first body had been in the foyer. It was a young boy, lying on his side, fingers curled in agony. He looked to be no older than fifteen. They hadn’t gone into the cellar-- when they had approached, there had been a wall of putrid air that stopped them halfway down the stairs, curling lazily towards the foyer. It was the smell of death, of bodies piled down and out of the way like stacks of wood.

There hadn’t been anyone alive in the castle, though it was obvious that it had been recently lived in. There were fresh coals in the fireplaces, beds were ruffled with use, and scraps of rotting meats and vegetables in the kitchen. The castle now, however, was cold and quiet, and they didn’t find any more bodies until they entered the northern tower.

It had been Hopeless who found them, having climbed the stairs with a fellow soldier while the rest searched the hall below. He had returned, face pale and eyes pained and the group had made their way up, slowly. Not out of cautiousness, they knew the room was empty, but because they knew what they would find.

The smell from the cellar was here, too, and the bodies were in the far corner, covered in dirty burlap. Even from their position by the door, they could see the dark spot seeping from below the sack, black in the afternoon sunlight creeping through the window. Ghastly had been the first to enter the room and he tried to ignore the chains and the splatters of blood that adorned the opposite wall.

There had been nothing of use in the castle, and it only confirmed that Serpine had slunk off to some other hiding spot, so they didn’t linger. Ghastly and Hopeless had taken the bodies, ignoring the smell and not daring to look beneath, and bundled them into the back of one of their carts. No one else was allowed to touch them, and Ghastly was determined they would have a proper burial. The one his friend never received.

It was beside their graveside where Ghastly now stood, his coat collar pulled high against the winter cold. The earth had been frozen and it had been a painstaking ordeal to dig the grave, but Ghastly had done it, refusing to use magic. It was going to be done and it was going to be done properly. Hopeless had worked beside him, silent and uncomplaining, until they were able to lower what remained of the bodies into the ground. And then the shovels had been taken up once again and the grave filled.

Ghastly stood there, looking at the fresh mound of dirt already beginning to freeze over. They had no way of properly marking the grave, but Hopeless had found a large stone and began chipping away at a crude inscription with his knife. The process was slow and lacked elegance, but as Hopeless laid the stone with those two names on it at the head of the grave, Ghastly could feel the icy grip that had plagued his heart for the last two months melt slightly. This wasn’t much, but it was something, and Ghastly knew Skulduggery would have approved.

Hopeless joined Ghastly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “He would,” Hopeless said, “I know he would.”

Ghastly didn’t respond, but took comfort in his friend's assurance.

“Do you remember,” he said softly, “when they first met?”

A grin rose on Hopeless' face. “She hated him. He thought he was being so charming, but it was obvious she hated him.”

“It took him forever to get the hint,” Ghastly agreed. “I think it was because he talked too much. And she didn’t find his humor funny. She wasn’t enough of a defeatist.”

“It’s a good thing he finally decided to listen to you. Who knew you could be such a romantic.”

“Stop teasing me. I’m terrible with that sort of thing. But I’ll still take credit for it.”

“You told him to buy her flowers, Ghastly. That’s courting basics.”

“Courting basics that he apparently didn’t know. And look where it got him. It got him a wife.”

Hopeless grinned. “I remember when he found out he was going to be a father. I’ve never seen a smile so big. He was so sure it was going to be a boy.”

Ghastly narrowed his eyes. “I’m still angry you knew before I did.”

Hopeless shrugged. “What can I say? One of us had to be the favorite friend.”

Ghastly glared at him and Hopeless laughed, the sound ringing through the cold air before it was snatched by the breeze.

They were silent for a moment.

“They were such a beautiful family,” Ghastly said softly. “They deserved so much more.”

The wind tugged at their clothing and suddenly Ghastly was reminded of the icy grip on his heart. He turned, walking away. Hopeless took a few long strides and fell into step next to him, the frozen grass crunching beneath their feet.

They entered the camp, passing the old farm house and moving between tents. The base was busy with soldiers hurrying about their duties and there was tension in the air-- the usual nervousness of men at war, but also the uneasiness surrounding Ravel’s platoon. They were supposed to have returned that morning from their scouting mission but had yet to appear. The sun was beginning to slip its way below the horizon when Ghastly arrived at his tent and stepped in, Hopeless slipping through behind him and sitting on the small cot.

“Ravel and his lot still haven't returned,” Ghastly muttered, “that’s unlike him.”

“Something could have happened,” Hopeless responded. “Or they may have found something.”

“It better be the latter. Lord knows we need something else to worry about.”

“You’ve heard the rumors?” Hopeless asked. The cot creaked below him as he leaned back, bringing a knee to his chest.

Ghastly grunted and turned, clearing gear off the single chair and sitting. “I was talking about the war.”

“I know you were. And now I’m talking about those rumors.”

“I’ve heard ghost stories,” Ghastly responded, “and I’ve heard of shell shocked men seeing things that aren’t there.”

“Dexter Vex and Saracen Rue claimed to have seen it. It was part of their report when they dragged Rumin Sundry to the new sanctuary.”

“How do you know that?”

“Deuce received a report yesterday morning and I happened to be nearby. It was quite the story.”

Ghastly didn’t say anything. “If there is something out there,” he said finally, “it’s doing our job for us.”

“Not everyone has that opinion. They’re thinking about forming a squad and hunting it down.”

“Then they’ll be wasting their time. It’s not real. Whatever is going on, it’s not bothering us and we should let the matter be.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that people are uneasy.”

Ghastly sighed and rubbed his forehead. There were wrinkles forming there, and he consciously reminded himself not to furrow his brow. He tried to avoid anything that might add to his scarred visage in any negative way.

"Who exactly is planning this? Deuce? Meritorious?”

Hopeless hesitated. “No. It seems to be a little more unofficial than that.”

“Whoever is stirring this pot is doing the exact opposite of what we need. If someone were to try something, Deuce would put a stop to it.”

There was a moment of silence.

“What if it is real?” Hopeless said, cautiously, watching Ghastly for his reaction. “What if it comes here?”

Ghastly dropped his hand and looked at Hopeless. “Why would something like that come here? All the reports say it’s going against Mevolent’s men. And, as I’ve said before, it doesn’t exist.”

“People think it’s one of them,” Hopeless pressed, “they think it’s the spirit of one of those who were killed.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? We live in a world with ghosts and zombies and death magic.”

“Do you really think this could be a zombie, Hopeless? Seriously?”

“No. But it could be something else. It could be--”

“It’s not,” Ghastly growled and Hopeless snapped his mouth shut. The tent was silent. Ghastly could hear the movement of soldiers outside. He sighed.

“I refuse,” he said, “to feed such ridiculous rumors. But I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m sorry.”

Hopeless shrugged. “I shouldn’t have pushed it.” He hesitated. “How are you?”

Ghastly didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

Hopeless opened his mouth to speak and then froze, snapping it shut once again. His brow furrowed. “Something’s wrong,” he said, and Ghastly leaned forward.  
Hopeless turned his head to the tent flap.

He stood, suddenly. “It’s Erskine. Something happened.”

Ghastly felt that icy grip on his heart constrict as he rushed with Hopeless from the tent. There were shouts now, cries, and people running. Ghastly dodged around the hurrying soldiers, making his way towards the commotion. There were people, a large group at the westward entrance of the camp and as Ghastly neared, he could clearly see something was wrong. It was Ravel’s platoon, but it seemed thinner and there were men limping, leaning on each other. Some had what looked like bodies thrown over their shoulders.

Ravel was at the front of the throng, barking orders and directing medical attention. He had, Ghastly could see, something dark dripping down the right side of his face.

Blood. They had been in a fight. And from the looks of it, they hadn’t won. Ghastly gritted his teeth. This was the last thing they needed-- Mevolent was steadily gaining ground in a war they thought they had won, and the men needed assurance, not a simple scouting party returning beaten and bloody. Not after the losses they’ve taken. It was a small mercy that Ravel was still alive. Ghastly didn’t think that there would be anyone else willing to take a position of leadership if he had been killed.

Corrival Deuce stalked past them. Ravel saw him approaching and moved in their direction.

“Ravel,” Deuce barked, surveying the scene, “what the hell happened?”

“An ambush,” Ravel said. “We need a meeting, now.”

Corrival observed him for a moment and Ravel held his gaze, jaw clenched and eyes hard. Corrival nodded.

“Finish instructing aid,” he said, “and then meet me in my tent.”

He turned and pointed at Ghastly and Hopeless. “You two. With me. Now.”

Corrival marched away and Ghastly looked at Ravel. He had already turned, waving away an offer of aid and directing them to the nearest soldier in need. Hopeless touched Ghastly’s arm gently and and they moved away. 

An ambush. Mevolent’s men had been waiting for them. How far from the camp? Was this a precursor to something larger? Ghastly’s jaw clenched as they approached Corrival’s tent. It was a wonder Ravel and those men had made it back alive.

The tent was the same as the last time they had visited-- large and warm and those orbs of fire still floating by the ceiling. Meritorious had left a few days after he had arrived so there were only three of them as Ghastly and Hopeless took up standing by the right wall. Corrival stood behind the large table, arms crossed. No one said anything.

It was a few minutes before the tent flap opened and Ravel entered. He held a cloth to the right side of his head, and now that they were closer, Ghastly could see the dark bruises forming under his eyes and the stains on his clothing. It looked like Ravel had been on the ground.

“We were ambushed,” Ravel said, wasting no time, but Corrival held a hand up to stop him.

“Did you get proper medical attention?” He asked and Ravel scowled.

“I don’t need medical attention,” Ravel said. “That’s the least of my worries. Four of my men were killed, three more critically injured and none of us still standing are unscathed. Mevolent’s men knew where to find us, and they hit us barely five miles from here. I think they wanted to make their presence known. We should all be dead right now.”

Corrival looked at him. “And why aren’t you?”

Ghastly blinked. Ravel’s jaw flexed and he glanced at Ghastly and Hopeless and motioned them to come closer. They approached the table and Ravel lowered his voice.

“They’re true,” he said, “the rumors. The stories. They’re true.”

Corrival narrowed his eyes. “What stories?”

“The apparition. The so-called ghost soldiers have been talking about. It’s real.”

The tent was silent for a moment. Ravel looked at Hopeless.

“You see it, don’t you? You know I’m not lying.”

Ghastly looked at Hopeless. His face was grim, his mouth set in a thin line, and he was staring intently at the table before them.

“How do you know this?” Ghastly asked. “What did you see?”

Ravel took the cloth from his temple and shook his head. “There was so much going on. They caught us off guard, overpowered us. Two men dead before we even knew they were there. We were fighting them off as best we could, but there was no way we were going to make it. I was prepared to die.” Ravel raised his head, looking towards the ceiling and the dancing flames. “And then it came.”

Ghastly frowned. “What?”

“It just appeared. It blasted some of Mevolent’s men off their feet. Half of the ones still standing turned tail and ran. The others didn’t even get close, they were either blasted back as well, or got a face full of fire. And then it was over and the thing just stood there, all rags and empty space. And then it turned and walked away.”

“It saved you,” Hopeless said softly and Ravel looked at him.

“Or it saw a fight and wanted to join. That’s besides the point. What’s important is now we have two threats to focus on-- Mevolent’s men and whatever this thing wants. We need to do something before either party decides to bring the fight here. We cannot be caught off guard again.”

“We know what Mevolent’s agenda is,” Hopeless said, “but whatever this creature is doing, it doesn’t seem to be against us. I don’t think it’s our enemy.”

“Can we take that risk?” Ravel looked at Corrival. “And it is a risk. We have to do something. There are men more than willing to form a hunting party, and we need to do it now.”

Ghastly watched Deuce. His arms were still crossed.

“Ravel is right,” he said at last. “I fear it is a risk we cannot take. We can send out a hunting party in the morning. You look troubled, Hopeless.”

“I truly do not think this is a threat,” Hopeless said softly and Deuce’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

“I understand, private,” he said, “but we are at war. We cannot afford to give anyone or anything the benefit of the doubt. We need to deal in absolutes.”

“Skulduggery Pleasant would say that the only absolutes are victory and defeat. Everything in the middle will always be uncertain.”

Ghastly looked at his friend, at the intensity that was on his face.

“He’s right,” Ghastly said, surprising himself. Deuce looked at them.

“That is all well and good, but something still needs to be done.” Deuce sighed. “Very well, we will send out a hunting party in the morning, but the priority will be capture. We need to know where this thing came from and what it wants. Does that work for you, Ravel?”

Ravel nodded tightly.

“Alright. Have the men you spoke of ready to go at first light. Ghastly, Hopeless, I would like you to join them. Take as many as you think you need, but limit it to ten at the most, we don’t want to make too much noise. Keep this as under wraps as possible.”

None of them said anything as they left. Ravel walked straight to the medical tent to check on his men that were injured and receive any medical attention he himself may have needed, and Ghastly and Hopeless parted for their tents without a word.

The night was sharp and cold and dark, and Ghastly stood in his tent, unmoving. He wasn’t sure what Hopeless had been thinking, but he rarely saw that look on his friends face. Ghastly had learned not to question it. Hopeless’ intuition was rarely wrong.

He stepped over to the chest that sat on the floor by his cot and undid the latch. The lid opened with a slight creak, and Ghastly made a mental note to grease the hinge the next chance he got. This was where he stored most of his miscellaneous items and the few bits of cloth and sewing supplies he could afford. This was his livelihood, kept in the confines of a single box. He often dreamed of his own place, somewhere quiet and reserved, where he could spend his hours doing what he loved. When the war was over, that’s what he wanted.

This wasn’t on the forefront of his mind, however. It was what was at the bottom that he wanted, and he gently set down a folded segment of cloth and peered into the chest, clicking his fingers to summon some light.

Nestled at the bottom were a few items, none of them his. Ghastly supposed they were his now by technicality, but he didn’t think he could bring himself to take complete ownership. It was a long leather coat, folded and snuggled at the bottom, with a leather belt placed gently on top. A gun in a holster was placed next to them, and the rapier that would have completed the set lay on under the cot. They were clean and obviously well cared for and Ghastly gently lifted the gun in its holster from the chest. 

Skulduggery Pleasant’s gear. Or the gear that Ghastly had retrieved from Skulduggery’s tent when Ghastly returned from the wake that had been held in front of his friends house.

Skulduggery, like himself, hadn’t brought many items with him. Unlike Ghastly, he had chosen to keep what was important to him at home with his family, and so when Ghastly had entered his cold tent, these were the only items of any sort of sentimental value. He wasn’t sure what happened to the rest of it. Probably taken as reserve items.

Ghastly replaced everything else and closed the chest, gently laying the gun on top. He had his own firearm, but he figured that it wouldn’t hurt to have a second. He didn’t know what good it would do against whatever they were hunting. A skeleton? An extra gun probably wouldn’t make a very big difference, but Ghastly decided to take it anyway.

He readied the rest of whatever gear he would need for the morning, and then laid on his cot, fully clothed. He lay there, in the dark, waiting for sleep to arrive, and when it did, it carried him quickly away. His dreams came next, and when they did, they came loudly, the way they did every night.

And there was a noise, outside his tent, and Ghastly snapped his eyes open. He stayed silent, hand moving slowly to the weapon by his head, and then his tent flap opened and the moon etched out the silhouette of a man.

“Get up,” Hopeless hissed, “now.”

Ghastly swung his legs off the cot and grabbed both guns sitting atop the chest, securing them to both hips as he followed Hopeless through the darkness. It was almost sunrise and light was beginning its slow creep across the horizon.

“Hopeless,” Ghastly asked softly to the back before him, “what’s going on?”

“Deuce will be calling for us.”

Ghastly frowned. “Will be? You mean he hasn’t yet?”

“Not yet. But he will be.”

“Isn’t this completely against conduct?”

Hopeless shot Ghastly a glance over his shoulder and Ghastly saw the trepidation glinting in his eyes. He didn’t press.

They approached Corrival’s tent and they could see people already standing outside. As they got closer, Ghastly could make out Deuce, Ravel, and one other soldier who’s name he didn’t know.

Corrival looked grim. 

“I’m sorry,” Hopeless said, “but I heard Ravel and…” He trailed off and his face slackened as he stared at them.

Deuce nodded. “Don’t apologize. We’re in need of your skills, anyways. I’m sure you’ve realized that.”

“What’s going on?” Ghastly asked, realizing quickly that he was the only one who didn’t know what was happening. 

It was Ravel who answered him. “The night watch alerted Deuce. Someone infiltrated the camp. They saw him on their rounds, just standing in the main congregating area. When he realized he was spotted, he just walked into the old farmhouse, where all the supplies were kept. We just came from there.”

“Did you speak with them?”

Ravel nodded.

“Who are they?” Ghastly asked, irritated that he was the only one without answers. “What do they want?”

They all looked at him, and he became aware of how uneasy they all seemed. No one spoke. And then Hopeless turned to him, his face devoid of color.

“It’s the apparition,” he said finally, and the words were flat and heavy and empty, “and it says he’s Skulduggery Pleasant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	7. A Surprising Amount of Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter puts us squarely over 20k words, and I am very pleased with myself.

The early morning was cold. Ghastly was tired of the cold. He was tired of the chill, the way his bones ached with it every time he moved. He was tired of his tent, of the fighting, of the war. Ghastly was tired. He was tired of all of it.

He stormed through the camp back the way he had come, fists balled and jaw clenched. Whatever sort of sick joke that was being played here, Ghastly was tired of that, too. He could see in Hopeless’ face as he had turned to him that the man believed the words that had fallen from his mouth and it had struck Ghastly like a fist. Ghastly responded the best way he knew how to-- he struck back. He hardly even saw Hopeless hit the ground before he had spun on his heel and stalked away. Ghastly had just buried the bodies of his friends' family and he was going to make whichever of Mevolent’s sick freaks had come up with this plot answer for it.

There was a shout from behind him, but Ghastly didn’t slow down. He heard the footsteps approaching, and so he was ready to turn and throw the hand that landed on his shoulder away from him as soon as it made contact. It was Ravel, and Hopeless stood a few feet behind him, breathing hard and holding his injured jaw. Ghastly felt a pang of regret, but that dissipated as soon as Ravel spoke.

“Bespoke,” he said, “please.”

Ghastly swung at him, too, but Ravel dodged out of the way, obviously expecting it. Ghastly went to kick him, but Ravel batted the leg down and moved in. A punch landed squarely in Ghastly’s stomach, and the breath left him in a hurry. Ravel stepped away as Ghastly doubled over, gasping.

“You aren’t thinking straight,” Ravel said and Ghastly glared at him between breaths. “You can’t even fight properly.”

“Touch me again,” Ghastly growled as he struggled to straighten, “and I’ll show you a real fight.”

“Ghastly,” Hopeless said, stepping forward, “you need to calm down.”

Ghastly rounded on him. “No. Don’t you dare tell me to calm down. I don’t know why you’re buying into this, Hopeless, but I refuse too.”

“We aren’t buying into anything,” Ravel tried, but Ghastly glared at him.

“You are. I could see it in your faces. You didn’t want to tell me.”

“We aren’t,” Ravel repeated, “buying into anything. That’s just what he told us.”

“This thing says a handful of words to you and you’re already calling it a he.”

“We’re taking everything with a grain of salt, Bespoke.”

“You shouldn’t be taking it with anything. Skulduggery is dead. End of story.”

Hopeless took a step forward. “Ghastly,” he said softly, “I know that. I know it better than most. But Skulduggery died in pain. He died in agony, Ghastly, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but a soul like that isn’t going to rest easy.”

“And so you think he’s back,” Ghastly snapped, “and he’s been out wandering the battlefield, causing all this ruckus, before suddenly deciding to wander here.”

“We don’t know what we believe yet,” said Ravel, “so we’re going to find the truth, and believe in that. But we can’t have you storming off or getting yourself killed.”

“I’m not going to get myself killed.”

“You’re angry and you have that look in your eye. You want to hit someone. We need you to listen to us. Are you listening, or do I need to punch you again?”

Ghastly felt some of the anger leave him, and it was replaced once again with that icy grip. 

“Fine.”

“Wonderful. We’re trying to keep this quiet until we know what’s going on. Obviously, some sort of necromancy or death magic is at play here. This either means Mevolent is running some experiments, or the necromancers are. We need to find out which.”

“You think they’re maybe trying to build an undead army?” Hopeless asked. “But all of the rumors have said it's been attacking Mevolent’s men.”

“That is the puzzling bit.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” Ghastly asked, and Ravel hesitated and then looked at Hopeless.

Ghastly narrowed his eyes. “You want Hopeless to verify.”

“Yes.”

“That could be incredibly dangerous. You have no idea what could be wrong with that thing.”

“We are aware.”

“You could be asking him to walk straight into a trap.”

“Which is why we’re leaving the choice up to him.”

Ghastly sighed and rubbed his forehead, attempting to dissipate the rest of his anger. His scars were rigid and uneven as his hand traveled across his face and then to the back of his head.

“No matter if it is him or not,” Ghastly said, “who knows what kind of effect this might have on Hopeless. We have no idea how broken a mind like that could be.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Hopeless said softly, “if it means putting these rumors, and our friends name, to rest. And if it's telling the truth, he’s going to need your support.”

Ghastly was silent for a moment. Hopeless was looking at him, his eyes hard and Ravel had folded his arms behind his back, watching him. The air was cold as they stood there, in the quiet. Ghastly nodded.

“If it’s lying,” he said finally, “I want to be the one to kill it.”

The camp where they had been stationed was in all actuality centered on an old plot of farmland. The family that had lived here had left their ancestral home for safer areas of the country, but had taken gladly to a resistance regiment making base there-- it at the very least lowered the chances of their land becoming a battleground. The farm itself was flat and barren this time of year, and it held a grand total of four buildings.

One was an old stable and the second an old grain silo. The other two, an old barn and the farmhouse itself, were quaint little things. The barn had become a medical station for anyone who may need longer term care and the farmhouse was where the supplies were kept. The latter was the driest and the cleanest of all the buildings.

It was the farmhouse Ghastly found himself walking to, Hopeless by his side. It had been decided that the two of them would go, alone. Large amounts of people, Corrival had argued, might be seen as a threat. He and Ravel, intent on keeping the apparitions presence a secret for as long as possible, would keep watch over the building while the pair were inside. They had said it was to ensure no straggling soldier entered and interrupted-- Ghastly knew it was for their own protection.

A pit opened in his stomach, and Ghastly tried to ignore it. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, and Hopeless smiled softly.

“Yes,” he said, “I do.”

“We don’t know what’s in there.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve seen memories, but you have no idea what this might do to you, the kind of impact it may have. This is your mind we’re talking about, Hopeless.”

“I am fully aware.”

Ghastly stopped abruptly. Hopeless took a few more steps and then turned, facing him.

“Why have we stopped?” He asked, and Ghastly crossed his arms.

“I need to know you’re taking this seriously. You might be walking into hell.”

“Do you have any other suggestions? I know you, and I know that unless I walk in there, you’ll never be satisfied.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“Yes,” Hopeless corrected him, “it is. I appreciate your concern. I have no intention of going insane.”

Ghastly didn’t say anything, but he knew that Hopeless was trying to assuage his fears. Hopeless was some of the only family he had left. Ghastly nodded and joined Hopeless, and they turned to the house.

The front door was closed as they approached, and Ghastly kept a close eye on Hopeless. His face was blank, impassive. The moment anything seemed to be wrong, Ghastly was prepared to either fling his friend to safety, or knock him out cold. He winced, slightly, as he remembered he had almost done that already.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” Ghastly said.

“It’s fine,” Hopeless said simply. Ghastly looked at him. Blank.

The porch was empty and the front door swung slowly open and they entered. Hopeless wasn’t screaming or crying or begging, and Ghastly took that as a good sign. Hopeless led the way, slowly, to the back room, and they stopped in the doorway.

The room was bare, the furniture removed to make way for the crates stacked against the wall. The cold was just as sharp in here as outside the walls, and the fireplace had been empty since the house's inhabitants had left. The window was open and light was pouring through as they stepped in, and Ghastly felt his heart stutter. His hands, he noticed as he stood there, had begun trembling slightly. Ghastly tried to tell himself it was just the anticipation, but he knew that was a lie. He was afraid. Fear and tension had set his muscles on fire.

The thing stood at the window, light passing through its empty frame, dressed in ragged clothing and covered in dust. Ghastly could see that the clothes it wore were much too big, and there was a rope cinching the ripped trousers to its hips. It was facing away from them, and Ghastly glanced at Hopeless. He was frowning now, eyes trained on the creature before them.

“Hello,” Ghastly said, surprising himself. There was no response. The skeleton stood there, absolutely motionless.

“Do you know who we are?” Ghastly continued. “My name is Ghastly Bespoke. Hopeless is here with me, too.”

Silence.

“We’re looking for answers. Who are you? Where did you come from? What do you want?”

Nothing.

Anger flashed across Ghastly’s vision. “You told our compatriots who spoke with you earlier that you are Skulduggery Pleasant. Skulduggery Pleasant and his family are dead. I suggest you start answering my questions before I get any angrier than I already am.”

Hopeless still only stared as silence persisted, making no move to break it. Ghastly glared at the skeleton before him, becoming more convinced that it was fake, that this really was a joke, and contemplating how soon he should walk over and punch it.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The voice, sudden and unexpected, hit him like a bullet, driving Ghastly back a step. It was clearly male; dry, and empty, and barely recognizable, and it sliced through the silence. Ghastly saw Hopeless grit his teeth out of the corner of his eye, and he looked visibly agitated now. Something was wrong.

“Who shouldn’t be here?” Ghastly managed to ask.

The skeleton moved finally, turning halfway and looking at them with its big, empty eye sockets. The sunlight framed it from behind, keeping them cast in shadow, and they were no more than two gaping black pits threatening to swallow Ghastly if he looked at them too long.

“You shouldn’t be here.” The skeleton said again, and Ghastly realized its eyeless gaze was trained on Hopeless. “This is too much for a mind reader.”

The icy grip around Ghastly’s heart wrenched violently, but he ignored it, ignoring what that comment might entail. Hopeless didn’t respond, he only stared at it, his brow furrowed in agitation.

“How do you know about his discipline?” Ghastly asked. “No one knows about his discipline.”

“I do,” the skeleton responded. Its jaw opened and closed as it spoke. There was quiet for a moment, and then it tilted its head, ever so slightly.

“You can’t read my thoughts,” it said, and Ghastly watched as annoyance flashed across Hopeless face.

“No,” he said tightly, “I can’t.”

“That’s a first for you, isn’t it?” The skeleton asked, its voice still a low, empty thing. “Of course, that makes this much more difficult. If you can’t read my mind, there’s no telling what I may be lying about.”

Ghastly looked at him. “You aren’t getting anything? Anything at all?”

“There’s nothing,” Hopeless said softly. “I didn’t sense anything walking in, and I don’t sense anything standing here now. Nothing. Not even a whisper.”

“What are you?” Ghastly asked, voice as sharp as he could make it. “Some sort of spy? One of Mevolent’s experiments?”

The skeleton turned its head slightly and Ghastly felt the weight of its gaze land on him. It didn’t respond.

Ghastly felt his jaw clench. “You better start telling me who the hell you are,” Ghastly said, voice low, and he saw Hopeless look at him. “And if you lie to me, I swear to God, I’ll rip you apart myself.”

The skeleton observed him for a moment, then observed Hopeless, and Ghastly was moments away from blasting it with a ball of fire when it opened its mouth.

It closed. There was a moment of stillness. Then the jaw opened once more, and this time, words.

“You are Hopeless,” it said, and Ghastly narrowed his eyes. “We met in a bar. You had just informed a man that his wife was cheating on him. You had good intentions, but the man took it to mean she was cheating on him with you, and was trying to get his hands around your throat.”

The head swiveled to Ghastly. “You are Ghastly Bespoke. We met on a ship. We were both striking out on our own for the first time, and thought the life of a sailor would be full of adventure. We fought pirates. We lost to pirates.”

It hesitated for a moment, and Ghastly felt like the floor had been tugged away from underneath him. He fought against the truth that was bubbling to the surface, fought the sadness that was rising as he looked at what was becoming less of a creature and more like the broken remains of a man, and willed the words that would come next to be untrue.

“I,” the skeleton said softly, “am Skulduggery Pleasant. I was married twenty-two years ago on April 25th and I had a daughter. We were killed, the three of us, by Nefarian Serpine. I came back. They did not.”

The silence that followed this time was heavy and Ghastly could feel it settling on his shoulders, smothering his breath. This was the weight of guilt, Ghastly realized, raw and ravaging, and he felt it add to the ice around his heart, the cold seeping through his body.

“I know,” the skeleton continued, “there is little that I can say that will convince you I am real and I am telling the truth. It’s all very difficult to believe. I know it is for me and I would love for you convince me that this is all a horrible little dream.”

“I believe you,” Hopeless said softly, and the skeleton turned his head to him. 

“Really?”

“I… had a feeling, hearing all the stories and rumors about an apparition sweeping the battlefield. Ravel confirmed my suspicions when I saw he had spoken to you. I am so sorry for what has happened, my friend. How are you back?”

No response came, and Hopeless nodded. “Do you remember? What happened, I mean.”

There was a hesitation. “There are parts that are… muddy. Clouded. Moments that have been blocked out. But I remember Serpine. I remember him murdering them, torturing me, killing me with that red right hand. And then I have images, emotions. I’m not quite sure. I woke up on a beach.”

Ghastly frowned. “A beach?”

“Not a beach. A rivers edge. They had gathered up my remains and put them in a bag and thrown the bag in the river. Some curious children fished me out, I think, and started to put me together, like some sort of puzzle. I think I frightened them when I sat up and finished the job.” There was quiet for a moment. “I realize how morbid that all sounds.”

“And you’ve been wandering ever since?” Hopeless asked, and the skeleton shook its head.

“Not… exactly. I went looking for Serpine. I’m going to kill him.” The skull swiveled to Ghastly. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know if I want you to be who you say you are.”

“But the fact that you are unsure goes to say that some part of you does recognize me as your friend.” The skull moved slightly. “I’m not offended. I’m struggling with all of this, too, I can assure you.”

Ghastly suddenly felt very guilty. “Are you… are you ok?”

There was a hint of amusement in that dull voice. “Not in the slightest. I have no brain. I have no skin. I have no heart. I’m having a little crisis of being at the moment. I’m a thing now, I suppose. An it. I’m not quite sure how to cope with that.”

“And are you coping?”

“No. Not even a little."

Skulduggery, Ghastly couldn’t ignore it anymore, leaned against the windowsill. “I saw Dexter Vex.”

Hopeless nodded. “I heard about his report.”

“You did? Of course you did. What did he say?”

Hopeless hesitated, and Ghastly could tell he was choosing his words carefully. “He said on their mission to retrieve Rumin Sundry they were saved by an… unknown figure.”

Skulduggery let out a barked laugh. “Saved by an unknown figure. That’s a laugh. I didn’t even know it was him until he started yelling at me. You should have seen the fear in his eyes. The terror. I’ve been looked at like that before in the last few weeks, seen it in soldiers, in bystanders, in reflections. But seeing it on the face of someone I knew was something else entirely.”

“Is that why you came back? Back here, I mean.”

“I suppose. I wasn’t getting anywhere doing anything else. When I woke up in that dirt, all I could think about was Serpine. Seeing Dexter snapped me back, forced me to think clearer.” He was silent for a moment. “Did you find them? When you went to Serpine’s castle?”

“We did,” Hopeless responded. “We buried them past the edge of camp.”

Skulduggery nodded, and Ghastly looked at him for any sign of emotion. He found himself looking away moments later-- there was something incredibly uncomfortable about how impassive and unmoving the skeleton before him was. Ghastly shifted slightly.

“We had a wake,” Hopeless said, “before we left for Serpine’s castle. There was no funeral, but we held a memorial at your home. I admit I haven’t been back since, but it’s still yours. No one’s living there.”

“I know,” Skulduggery responded, moving his arm slightly and shifting his gaze. Ghastly became aware of the chain that was wrapped tightly around the bones of his wrist.

Ghastly frowned. “You went there?”

“Before I came here, yes. I saw all the candles. The house isn’t there anymore, though.”

“What do you mean it isn’t there anymore?”

The skull moved up slightly and that empty gaze landed on Ghastly again. 

“I burned it.”

The room went silent and they stared at him in disbelief. Skulduggery, for his part, remained perfectly still.

Hopeless responded first, speaking what was on both of their minds. “You burned it? Why?”

Skulduggery shrugged. This was the first major movement he had made since they’d arrived, and Ghastly could see the bones of his shoulders shift and move to accommodate the gesture. 

“There was nothing left for me there,” he said. “It felt fitting. Is that my gun?”

Ghastly blinked at the rapid change of topic and looked down at his hip where the firearm was strapped. “It is. I retrieved it from your tent. I have your coat and sword, too. Do you want them back?”

The skull tilted slightly. “You hardly believe I am who I say I am, and yet you would trust me with a weapon?”

Ghastly hesitated. “No. I suppose that was more out of respect, I guess.”

Skulduggery made an amused little grunt. “That would be wise. I hardly trust myself. Ravel and Deuce are outside, I assume? Listening for any screaming?”

“Watching to make sure no one else enters. What do you mean you hardly trust yourself?”

Another shrug. “For all I know, I could be a very advanced, very decomposed zombie. I can still use magic, though, you know.”

“Zombies can’t use magic.”

“And such a reassurance, that is.” Skulduggery looked down at his hands. “It’s difficult to produce a spark, and I couldn’t feel the air at first. Everything seems muted.”

“But you can see and hear and speak,” Hopeless said. “Can you smell? And feel pain?”

“No. And… yes. Unfortunately. Putting myself together was surprisingly painful.” Skulduggery flexed his fingers and they coiled and uncoiled slowly. The phalanges bent and moved, but stayed intact. “This all makes me very uncomfortable,” he murmured.

He raised his head. “What are you going to do with me?”

“Do with you?” Hopeless smiled warily. “What do you mean?”

“I think you should tie me up. I could still be a threat. I came here because it was the only place I could think of, not because I wanted to hurt anyone.”

Hopeless waved his hand. “Nonsense. If someone was commanding you around, you probably would have killed us already.”

“Probably?”

“Most likely.”

“You have a surprising amount of faith in a creature whose mind you can't read.”

“You aren’t a creature,” Hopeless said firmly, “you’re our friend.”

Skulduggery observed him for a moment before turning his skull to Ghastly. “And what do you think?”

“I think,” he said slowly, “that we need to get you a new set of trousers. Where did you find all that? Behind a tavern?”

“Someone’s clothesline,” Skulduggery admitted. He sounded slightly sheepish, and Ghastly was starting to hear the voice of his friend break through the empty monotony.

“Ravel and Deuce are going to want to keep your return a secret, at least for now.” Hopeless said. “You could be the advantage we very much need.”

“A weapon,” Skulduggery said softly.

“An inspiration,” Hopeless corrected. “You’re a miracle, Skulduggery.”

“I don’t feel very miraculous.”

“You don’t need to. We’re here to help you, get you back on your feet. Are you willing to let us do that?”

Ghastly watched him as he sat there, propped up by the sill of the window, his skull impassive and silent. And then Skulduggery nodded, and Ghastly felt that ice around his heart begin to melt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote and rewrote this so many times because there were so many ways this could have happened. I figured there would be a lot of denial, a lot of anger, and as hard as Skulduggery may try to hide it, there's no way he isn't struggling immensely. I can only hope this was effectively written in the way I see it in my head. There's a bit of stress now to keep things at a certain quality!
> 
> Just because he's back, doesn't mean the ghost stories stop. :)


	8. The Next Best Thing

Erskine Ravel, though he hated to admit it, was a politician. Born the son of an aristocrat, he had spent a ridiculous amount of his childhood standing around in grand halls or sitting at grand dinner tables listening to adults speak on a variety of topics. Money, as a source of conversation, was often the most popular.

Erskine’s father, always needing his hands in as many aspects of the political sphere as he could, was not a subtle man. He was loud, and opinionated, and when he spoke, people listened: not out of respect, but simply because he was all you could hear. There was no ignoring his father. Erskine’s presence at these gatherings had been simply for display and he hadn’t been allowed to speak.

It was Erskine’s opinion, however, that politics were in all actuality a matter of diplomacy that required an immense amount of composure and elegance, and in his youth, Erskine had the opportunity to observe both. He was a patient man, a trait Erskine had inherited from his mother and one he was quite happy to have, though he suspected night after night of listening to his father may have also been to blame. His mother had been beautiful, refined, and gentle. Her allure came easy; in the form of beauty, yes, but also in the form of a charismatic smile and a way with words that charmed those that listened. Some would have called her manipulative. Erskine called her tactful.

When she had died giving birth to her fourth child, Erskine had thrown himself into his studies, reading and absorbing as much as he could. He attended balls and gatherings and meetings, and at these he spoke, practicing and refining that effortless charm his mother had conducted herself with and intent on separating his public image from his father. When the war came knocking, Erskine had answered and accepted it as an opportunity to solidify himself as the patriarch of the family. Military accolades, he wagered, were not something his father could achieve. 

But the war had dragged on, and even for a man of such patience as Erskine, he was wary, and it seemed to him that the war was to continue to drag on still. Erskine found himself struggling, occasionally, to maintain that patience that he so very prided himself on.

He stood there, in the biting cold, and willed himself to maintain it now. Corrival Deuce stood by his side, seemingly unperturbed by the chill and by the waiting, so Erskine didn’t speak. He wasn’t a man to fidget, but his fingers rubbed against themselves behind his back, and he watched the farmhouse, listening intently. It had been fifteen minutes since Ghastly and Hopeless had entered. The lack of screaming was either a good thing, or a very, very bad thing.

“They’ll be fine,” Corrival stated gruffly, breaking the silence. Erskine pursed his lips.

“Maybe I should go check on them,” he said, but Corrival shook his head.

“Those two are more than capable of handling themselves. If the thing was lying, we don’t want to go barging in there and ruin any chances of cooperation. If it wasn’t, I think it would be best if we gave them space.”

Erskine grunted, and knew that Corrival was right. He usually was.

“How’s that father of yours?” Corrival asked. “Still trying to work his way into that sanctuary business?”

Erskine couldn’t keep himself from scowling. “The man doesn’t know when to stop.”

“I heard he petitioned for the role of Grand Mage.”

“And he lost. Horribly. I think he only got one vote.”

Corrival raised an eyebrow. “One?”

“It was his aide.”

There was a chuckle from beside him and Erskine's scowl deepened.

“He’s an embarrassment to the family, and I refuse to clean up anymore of his messes. Hopefully this newly formed council means he finally can’t shove his nose where he wants and bully himself into matters that are none of his business.”

“I heard the sanctuaries were temporary,” Corrival said, “just until the war was over. But, I admit, I tend to keep myself removed from politics. Never been one for blowing hot air. I leave that up to people like your father. No offense, of course.”

“None taken,” Ravel said dryly.

They lapsed back into a momentary silence.

“What do you suppose we do?” Erskine asked. “We can’t keep this secret forever.”

Corrival looked at him, and then returned his gaze to the farmhouse. 

“What do you suggest?”

Erskine thought about it for a moment, formulating his thoughts. The apparition would cause fear and unrest, no matter who it turned out to be. But however their side took it, Mevolent’s side would most likely take it worse. It seemed it was just a question of how to properly play the hand they’d been dealt.

He opened his mouth to give Corrival his answer, but was abruptly cut off by the opening of the farmhouse door. Ghastly emerged, Hopeless closing the door behind them, and Erskine breathed a sigh of relief. The pair approached, and Erskine could see the grim line of their mouths and the troubled look in their eyes.

“Well?” Corrival asked when they stopped. “What did you read?”

“Nothing,” Hopeless said.

Erskine blinked. “What do you mean ‘nothing’?”

“Nothing,” Hopeless repeated. “I couldn’t read anything. Not a single thought.”

“What does that mean? It’s not human? It was lying to us?”

“Not it. He. And he wasn’t lying.”

Corrival narrowed his eyes. “You better start making sense, private.”

“When he put himself together, he must have reconstructed his thoughts in a manner that I can no longer read. But it’s certainly him. That’s Skulduggery.”

Erskine felt his brow furrow and he made a conscious effort to stop the creasing. “Did you say… put himself back together?”

It was Ghastly who responded. “They threw the bag of his bones into a river. That’s why we didn’t find any remains.”

“And you’re certain it’s him? Can we trust him?”

Ghastly hesitated, only for a moment. “Yes. I think we need to keep him under observation until we’re sure, but… it’s him.”

Erskine folded his arms and Corrival let out a low whistle.

“Well,” Corrival said, “that’s certainly a development. What’s he doing now? Did you tell him not to leave?”

Hopeless nodded. “We did. We took him upstairs to the master bedroom. There’s still some furniture there and it’s a better place to rest until we can return. It doesn’t seem like he’s in any sort of hurry.”

“I think this is an opportunity,” Erskine said suddenly, and they looked at him in surprise. “There’s an enemy encampment a few miles from here. It’s not so large as to be a problem, but enough that we’ve been keeping tabs on them. I think it’s high time they left.”

Hopeless looked at him for a moment and then shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“We need to use the advantage that’s been given to us here.”

“No.”

“If it truly is Skulduggery, then he can make his own decisions. I’m not asking you, Hopeless.”

Hopeless stepped forward and jammed a finger into Erskine’s chest. It was sharp, and painful, but he held his ground. 

“Skulduggery,” Hopeless said, his voice sharp and cold, “is not an advantage. He is not a weapon. He is a human being and our friend, and I will not allow you.”

Corrival stepped between them before Erskine could respond. 

“Explain,” he snapped. “Now.”

Hopeless glared. “He wants to use Skulduggery as bait.”

Irritation bubbled in Erskine’s chest, and he pushed it down. “Not as bait,” he said, his voice measured. “As a warning. I know you’ve all heard the stories, the apparition blazing through the battlefield, searching for and punishing those who were involved in the massacre. We need to capitalize on these stories, and use it to our advantage.”

He sighed, and closed his eyes. His cheeks stung with the cold and his ears were going numb.

“I’m simply saying that this is an opportunity,” he continued. “I’m not even asking him to fight. He should just approach the camp at night and Mevolent’s soldiers will be scared witless. They’ll either leave, or be rattled enough that we can send a team in and take advantage of their fear. Their encampment will be taken care of and the stories will grow.”

There was silence for a moment.

“Do you,” Hopeless said finally, his voice dangerously low, “have any idea what he’s feeling? Do you? Because I don’t. And I know for a fact that you don’t either. There is no way for any of us to even begin to comprehend what it must be like to be Skulduggery right now. And here you are, formulating how to best put him to use. What does that tell him? That he’s just a tool? A thing to be used? A creature to be whispered fearfully about around a dying campfire? He doesn’t need to be told to go on a mission right now, Ravel. He needs to be told that he’s safe.”

“I think,” Corrival stated firmly, “that we all need to take a breath here. As much as you don’t want to hear it, private, Erskine makes a good point. This is an opportunity, and the choice should be left up to Skulduggery. If he opposes, we will respect that. But it’s something that should be discussed before the opportunity is missed.”

Anger seeped from Hopeless’ eyes and coiled from his shoulders. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he turned his gaze to Ghastly. 

Ghastly looked away.

For a moment, Erskine thought Hopeless might strike him. Instead, he turned on his heel and stalked away, disappearing between the tents. The three of them were silent for a moment.

Erskine considered apologizing to Ghastly. It was insensitive, he knew, to be asking such a thing of Skulduggery, and he could see that Ghastly was physically uncomfortable. The man noticed Erskine looking at him, and he sighed.

“I understand your reasoning,” he said, and Erskine raised an eyebrow. “And I think we should present it to him. But we need to wait. Give him a few days to adjust on his own.”

Corrival nodded. “I agree. Did he have any requests?”

“No. But I’m going to alter a few clothing items I have, get him into something more comfortable. I’ll do the alterations in the farmhouse so he isn’t alone.”

“I’d like to go with you,” Erskine said. “Offer my support.”

Ghastly observed him for a moment, and then nodded. “Wait for me here. I’ll go grab my supplies and we can go in together.”

He left them standing there in the cold, and Corrival let out a deep sigh. “This is quite the strange turn of events,” he said. “I’m going to keep this quiet, but the new Grand Mage needs to know. Meritorious is a trustworthy man, and I have faith in the council.”

He clapped a hand on Erskine’s shoulder as he passed, and Erskine nodded to him in farewell. He was alone, suddenly, and it was quiet. The camp had been slowly waking up, and he could see soldiers exiting their tents and passing greetings to each other as they began their daily tasks. This regiment hadn’t seen action for the last few weeks, but the threat of an attack weighed heavily on everyone’s mind. And it was only a matter of time before they were called to the frontlines. 

Their side needed a breakthrough. They had been losing ground in Poland to Vengeous and his men, and there were two fronts being fought in Ireland alone. Men were dying, morale was fading, and over the past few weeks, they had nothing to show for it. Something needed to change, and it needed to change quickly.

He saw Ghastly on the main causeway between the tents and he nodded, moving to join him at the front door and Ghastly took the lead, taking them up the narrow staircase. The house was quiet and just as cold, and Ravel hoped there was a fireplace in whatever room they were going to.

Ghastly stopped at the first door they came across and rapped gently on the wood. When there was no reply, he reached for the handle and cracked the door open a fraction.

“Skulduggery?” He said softly. “It’s me.”

The room was silent, and Ghastly slowly opened the door and stepped through, holding it for Erskine and then closing it gently behind them. The room was modest enough, and Erskine noted with approval the small fireplace across from the bed, situated within the wall. The bed was sturdy, and sitting along the wall adjacent to the door was a wooden desk, painted an uneven white, and what looked to be a mirror covered by cloth. Erskine allowed his eyes to travel across the room before setting on its occupant.

The skeleton stood facing away from them, looking through the dirty window. There was nothing out there of any interest, just flat farmland, but it didn’t move as Ghastly stepped past Erskine. He had a set of clothes draped across his arm and a small bag in his other hand.

“I stole these from Hopeless,” Ghastly said, cutting the silence. “You two are about the same height and I’m afraid it would be too much work for me to alter any of my clothing down to your size. It might take me a bit to finish.”

No reply. It didn’t even move.

Erskine leaned toward Ghastly slightly. “Can it hear you?”

This bought him a glare.

“He can hear both of us, I just don’t think I said anything worth responding to. If you would like to offer something of substance to the conversation, Ravel, then by all means.”

There was a soft little grunt, almost like a laugh, and Erskine jerked his head up.

“I’m dead,” said the voice of Skulduggery Pleasant, “not deaf.”

Erskine blinked, finding himself at a loss for words, and Ghastly grinned slightly.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Ghastly said. “He wanted to come along.”

Skulduggery moved, finally, turning slightly from the window to look at them. Erskine swallowed as empty eye sockets surveyed them silently.

“Hopeless?” Skulduggery asked. Erskine suppressed a shiver as the empty voice washed over him. The whole thing was incredibly unsettling.

“We had a bit of a misunderstanding,” Ghastly said. “I’m sure he’ll turn back up eventually.”

The skull tilted slightly, but Skulduggery made no other reaction. Erskine looked at him, at the exposed bone and the grinning teeth, and felt his stomach drop. It was the same feeling he experienced when he and Corrival had attempted to speak with him just hours earlier, before he knew it was Skulduggery. This was, Erskine realized, much more distressing.

Erskine coughed slightly, to distract himself more than anything else, and forced himself to look at those empty sockets. “Hello, Skulduggery,” he said, fully aware of how formal and awkward he sounded, “how are you feeling?”

Skulduggery looked at him and Erskine could see Ghastly raise his eyebrows.

“Splendid,” Skulduggery said, flatly. “And how are you, Erskine?”

Erskine saw Ghastly stifle a grin and he tried to ignore him.

“I’ve been better,” he said and then hit himself, internally, over his choice of words. He attempted to keep an expression of pleasant neutrality on his face as Skulduggery observed him.

“Well,” Skulduggery said, eventually. “I can certainly relate.”

Erskine nodded, the movement feeling jerky and uncoordinated, and Ghastly moved to the bed, setting down the items he held. He breathed a breath of relief as Skulduggery’s attention shifted.

“I’ll be here for a bit,” Ghastly said, “so I’m going to need some warmth. Is that alright?” 

Skulduggery didn’t respond and Ghastly nodded.

“Erskine,” he said, opening his bag and pulling out some items, “if you don’t mind.”

He obliged, grateful at the opportunity to do something, anything, to dispel the air of uncomfortableness that had settled around them. There were a few pieces of wood stacked to the side and a darkened log still left in the fireplace and it took only a few moments for Erskine to get a substantial fire going. He felt it warm his cheeks, and he rubbed his ears slightly, willing the blood to flow.

Ghastly was perched on the bed when he turned around, a pair of trousers on his lap and snipping expertly at the seams. Skulduggery had turned all the way, and was now leaning against the wall. Ghastly nodded to the white fabric on the bed.

“That should work for you,” Ghastly said. “It’s a relatively small shirt, and it should be fine under your coat.”

Skulduggery didn’t respond and Erskine could see each individual bone of his hand as he straightened and picked up the item. He began working silently on the buttons of the ragged top he wore and Erskine looked away when the shirt parted and he caught a glimpse of bone. He looked around the room, anywhere but the window, and his eyes landed on the poorly painted desk. He stepped over to it.

The desk was unexceptional, and the top drawer he opened was empty, as was the drawer beneath it. Slightly disappointed, Erskine pulled the fabric from the mirror, and was momentarily surprised by the lack of dust. The frame that was revealed beneath was simple and modest, nothing like the elaborately carved mirrors that adorned Erskine's family home. He looked at himself, and realized it was the first time he’d seen his reflection since he’d been stationed here.

Erskine, in all humbleness, considered himself to be handsome. He had a nice face, all things considered, and when he felt clean and rested and in familiar surroundings, he had the additional attractiveness that walked hand and hand with money and status. Here, however, this was not the case. His dark hair, though he tried to style it as best he could, was visibly dirty, and he had the beginning of a beard starting across his jaw. He didn’t like beards. He preferred a clean shave, but he hadn’t had a chance to do so since he’d returned, and it only darkened the gauntness of his cheeks. 

It was only his eyes that remained unchanged, despite the dark circles from stress and lack of sleep. They were bright and they glittered and they seemed to shine with the years of knowledge he had been storing behind them. Erskine liked his eyes. They were his mother's eyes.

He saw Ghastly glance at him and frown, and then he could see Skulduggery’s reflection in the mirror look over, turning those empty eye sockets in Erskine’s direction. He seemed to make eye contact-- with himself or Erskine, he couldn’t tell-- and then looked away, sharply. Erskine frowned. Skulduggery had practically recoiled, going so far as to physically move his body. It was the most pronounced reaction he had supplied so far.

Erskine looked down at the fabric that was still clutched in his hand, the fabric without dust, that had been covering the mirror when he and Ghastly had arrived. The fabric that must have been put there very recently. Purposefully.

Oh. 

Erskine felt a sudden burst of guilt.

“Sorry,” he said, a little dumbly, and was met with silence. Ghastly glared at him and Erskine dropped the fabric onto the desk. Skulduggery was, as now seemed typical, silent, and he simply finished fastening the new shirt. It hung off him in a shapeless quality, but it was a considerable improvement. Ghastly looked at him and nodded approvingly.

“How does it feel?” He asked, and Skulduggery raised his arms slightly, looking at the clean sleeves.

“Better,” he said. He turned his hands over. “Do you have any gloves?”

“I do. They’re a bit thicker than would be practical, but we are in the middle of winter. They’re just inside that bag.”

Skulduggery stepped forward, pulling out a pair of black wool gloves. They looked incredibly comfortable and Erskine wondered briefly if Ghastly had made them. He made a mental note to ask him later.

White bone disappeared into the glove and Skulduggery’s fingers wiggled as he adjusted them. He paused, slightly, and moved his hand slowly.

Ghastly frowned. “Is something wrong?”

Skulduggery didn’t respond, but pressed his middle finger and thumb together. They slid off each other, resounding in a muted snap. Nothing happened. He did it again. Nothing.

“It’s the fabric,” Ghastly said. “Those are meant for warmth, not magic. You’re going to have to take them off for that.”

Erskine blinked. “Magic?” He asked. “You didn’t say he could do magic.”

Ghastly looked at him. Skulduggery didn’t raise his gaze.

“You thought he couldn’t?”

“I don’t know,” Erskine muttered, “I thought he was technically a zombie or something.”

Skulduggery began pulling on the second glove. “Cheers,” he said, without enthusiasm.

Erskine gained another glare shot in his direction from Ghastly, and he felt himself whither a little inside. He wasn’t doing as particularly good a job at offering support as he would have liked. It was all a little embarrassing.

They stood there in awkward silence, Ghastly beginning to work on the seams and Skulduggery flexing his hands in the gloves. Erskine fought the urge to rock on his heels and scratched his chin instead. He, and this was rare for him, was again at a loss for words.

Skulduggery dropped his hands to his side. “You might as well get it over with,” he stated, cutting the silence.

Ghastly glanced up at him. “Get what over with?”

Skulduggery turned his head to Erskine, and he felt a burst of nervousness explode in his chest.

“You have something to say,” Skulduggery said, “something Hopeless disagreed with, so you don’t want to bring it up. But you can’t think of anything else. What is it?”

Erskine shifted slightly and opened his mouth, but Ghastly cut him off.

“It’s nothing of immediate importance,” Ghastly said, “don’t worry about it.”

“But that means it’s something of general importance. If you’re simply trying not to offend me, I assure you that there is nothing you can say that I haven’t already thought of myself.”

These were the most words Erskine had heard Skulduggery speak, and his voice seemed oddly detached, devoid of emotion or inflection. It was a cold and empty thing, as cold and empty as the one it belonged to.

“There’s an enemy encampment north of here,” Ravel said, and Skulduggery looked at him. “They’ve been there for the last few weeks. We want them gone.”

Skulduggery observed him and Erskine wondered what kind of thoughts were running through that empty space in his head.

“You want me to make them leave,” Skulduggery said finally, and Ghastly automatically shook his head.

“We don’t want you to do anything. We don’t even want you to fight. I told them they should give you a few days to adjust.”

“You want me to frighten them, then? Scare them off? Convince them there’s a monster after them so they flee in terror?”

Ghastly faltered and Erskine lowered his eyes. Hopeless had been right, and Erskine knew that he should have listened to the two people that had known Skulduggery best. So much for patience, it seemed.

“I can see why Hopeless didn’t approve,” Skulduggery continued, and then went quiet. The silence permeated the air and Erskine was about to take the whole idea back when Skulduggery spoke again.

“I’ll do it.”

Surprise flashed through Erskine and he snapped his head up. Ghastly raised his eyebrows.

“You will?” Erskine asked, and a ghost of a shrug tugged at Skulduggery’s shoulder.

“I’m back,” he said. “I don’t know why and I don’t know how and I have nothing left. If I can be some sort of use to you, I’ll do it.”

“It won’t be for the next few nights,” Erskine informed him. “We need to get you situated and it’s something we’ll need to discuss with Corrival. We don’t have a solid plan and we’ll need to work out the details.”

“And I have to finish these clothes,” Ghastly added. Skulduggery nodded and leaned his shoulder against the wall once again.

“Thank you,” Erskine said. “And I want you to know, we’re not trying to use you. You aren’t a tool or an object that we--”

“No,” Skulduggery corrected, cutting him off, “that’s exactly what I am. I’m an opportunity and an advantage and it’s wise of you to make use of that.”

Ghastly looked at his friend and Erskine could see the sadness in his eyes as he spoke.

“Skulduggery,” he said softly, “you need time to process. To heal."

“I have been processing,” Skulduggery responded, “and there’s nothing to heal. What I need is to get my hands around Nefarian Serpines neck and make him suffer, but it looks like that won’t be happening anytime soon. This, to me, seems like the next best thing.”

He finished speaking and his skull turned back to the window, offering no more insight into what he might be thinking. Standing there with the warmth and the gentle crackle of the fire, surrounded by the empty house and surrounded further still by war and the death and destruction it offered, Ghastly looked away from the friend and man he used to know and Erskine found himself, once again, at a loss for words.


	9. Sounds of Gunfire

Erskine left Skulduggery and Ghastly to themselves and sought out Corrival to relay the conversation. Corrival nodded grimly and Erskine followed him to the main tent where they began discussing the plan at length and decided that Corrival would be the one to present it. It didn’t take very long and there weren’t many details, so Erskine had left only a few hours later. He didn’t return to the farmhouse and he didn’t see Hopeless.

Two days later, Erskine found himself once again walking to that bedroom. He knocked, Corrival at his shoulder, and Ghastly opened the door. He was finished with his alterations by then, and when they stepped through, saw that Skulduggery was fully dressed. The shirt was too big and the leather coat hung off his shoulders and the winter gloves looked incredibly out of place, but he was in respectable clothing and Erskine could see that his skull was clean and free of dust. He stood there, by the window, and watched them enter.

Erskine gave him a nod, but didn’t trust himself to speak.

Corrival marched past, purpose and authority following in his footsteps, and approached Skulduggery without hesitation, offering his hand. Skulduggery looked at it, as if unsure what to do, and then took it. They shook, and Erskine could tell that was the end of the matter for Corrival. That handshake, Erskine realized, was probably the first time anyone had physically interacted with Skulduggery since his return.

“I want to make sure that you understand that you don’t need to do this,” Corrival said, “and that we’re not asking you to do any fighting.”

Skulduggery didn’t respond and Corrival looked to Ghastly.

“We’ve talked about it,” Ghastly said, and Erskine felt his eyebrows raise. “I’ve told him that multiple times. He’s fully aware.”

“You want us to go tonight,” Skulduggery said finally, “or else you wouldn’t be here.”

Corrival returned his gaze and observed him for a moment. Skulduggery didn’t move.

“I am sorry for what has happened to you,” Corrival said, “and I have no wish to throw you back into the line of duty. But Ghastly knows you better than I, and if he says that you are ready, willing, and capable, I trust him.”

“Hopeless, Bespoke, and Ravel will accompany you, but it is important that the enemy does not know you aren’t alone. If they believe the apparition is working independently, they are less likely to figure out who you are and come after us in retaliation. It must continue to seem as if we have no connection. I understand that you can still do magic. All we’re asking is that you approach the encampment, use some magic from a distance, and frighten them. Do not make contact. Retreat and regroup with the others if the enemy becomes confrontational. This is not a battle. Is that clear?”

Skulduggery had looked at Corrival, his head dipping slightly in acknowledgement, and Corrival nodded in satisfaction.

“Private Hopeless,” Corrival said, “I do assume you wish to accompany them, correct?”

Erskine turned, surprised. Hopeless leaned in the doorway, his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed.

“Just because I am accompanying,” he said, his gaze fixed on Skulduggery, “does not mean I approve. I know you just as well as Ghastly, and I am against this idea.”

“He made the choice, not us,” Erskine said, and Hopeless eyes flicked to him before returning.

“Skulduggery can speak for himself. He doesn’t need the two of you to do it for him.”

Erskine clenched his jaw, irritation already growing, and he saw Ghastly frown slightly. Skulduggery’s head tilted.

“It’s bothering you,” he said, “that you can’t read my thoughts. That’s why you haven’t been back.”

Hopeless looked at him and then he sighed and rubbed his forehead. “You make rash decisions, Skulduggery, and don’t always think before you act. You always have. I want to make sure you’re thinking now.”

“You want to make sure I wait for you this time,” Skulduggery corrected, flat and emotionless.

Erskine froze slightly. Ghastly’s head snapped around in surprise and Hopeless looked like he had been struck. 

“This isn’t the same thing,” Hopeless said and Skulduggery slipped his gloved hands into his coat pockets.

“You’re right. It’s not even close. But that’s what you’re referring to, isn’t it?”

Hopeless didn’t respond and Skulduggery cocked his head. “You’re angry that I went off and got myself killed. You’re angry that I didn’t wait so you could rush off with me and get yourself killed, too. You both are.”

Hopeless didn’t say anything, just stood there and looked at the skeleton. The room was silent.

“Yes,” Ghastly said, stepping forward, “we are. But we’re angrier at the fact that this even happened at all. What’s important is that we have you back and that we have a second chance to make sure that nothing like this happens again.”

Skulduggery looked at him and didn’t say anything.

“How long until you three will be prepared to set out?” Corrival asked, bringing the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Skulduggery, we’re not giving you a firearm. You’re going to have to do with your magic.”

“That is fair,” Skulduggery replied.

“I can be ready to go in fifteen,” Ghastly answered, and Hopeless nodded in agreement.

Corrival grunted. “Skulduggery can go with Erskine. No one should see you if you leave from the back and circle around the ridge to the left. Ghastly, Hopeless, meet them there when you’re ready to leave.”

Without a goodbye, Corrival turned and walked out and Ghastly followed after a slight hesitation. Hopeless paused in the doorway, looking back at Skulduggery and then Erskine. Erskine tried a grin.

“We’ll be fine,” he told him. “No worries.”

Hopeless gave him a quick nod and then disappeared from view. Erskine watched him go and then started to turn, trying to keep the smile on his face, and was met with Skulduggery’s skull only a few steps away. Erskine started in surprise and the smile dropped. He hadn’t even heard the man move.

Skulduggery’s head tilted and Erskine scowled. “Don’t move so quietly,” he said, “you’ll give me a heart attack.”

“Would you prefer I stomped?” Skulduggery asked, amusement breaking through his empty monotony. Erskine raised an eyebrow. 

“Or tie a little bell around your neck,” he said.

“Like a dog?”

Erskine waved his hand in the air. “Or a cat, if that would make you feel better.”

Skulduggery grunted an amused laugh and Erskine turned to the door, leading them down the stairs and out the back. They passed along the rear of the house and then stepped off the porch. Erskine checked to make sure there weren’t any straggling soldiers around, and Skulduggery followed him to the small hill next to the house. It was in the late hours of evening, but Erskine kept his eyes on the camp.

“Is that your old coat?” He asked, attempting better conversation than the last time.

Skulduggery looked down slightly and then back at Erskine. “It is. Ghastly saved it from my tent. He said he grabbed a few other items, but the bulk of it was redistributed or added to the supply stash.”

“You didn’t seem to have much here.” Erskine glanced at him. Skulduggery was gazing away from the camp and out over the farmland. “Did you really burn your house down?”

Skulduggery made a noise like exhaled air and Erskine frowned to himself. Was that a sigh? Could a walking skeleton sigh? Skulduggery had no lungs, no throat, but he was pretty sure that’s what it was.

“It had been robbed,” Skulduggery said, interrupting Erskine’s thoughts. “It was basically empty.”

“But it was your house. Your family--”

“There was nothing there for me,” Skulduggery said, cutting him off. “It’s best that it’s gone.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Erskine’s curiosity got the best of him. “What’s it like,” he asked, “being dead?”

Skulduggery turned his gaze to him.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Erskine said quickly, “I’m just curious.”

“I understand,” Skulduggery said. He paused. “It’s too much like being alive, but with none of the… advantages. I always feel like my jaw is going to fall off.”

Erskine looked at him. “Can it?”

“I’m not entirely sure and I don’t think I want to find out.”

“What about the cold?”

“I can’t feel the cold and I can’t feel heat and I can’t feel texture unless it’s very pronounced,” Skulduggery responded, sounding amused, “but I can feel pressure.”

“Lucky for you,” Erskine said, shoving his hands in his pockets, “it’s been freezing this winter.”

Skulduggery looked at him and Erskine felt himself falter slightly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, correcting himself, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Skulduggery said.

Erskine nodded, still feeling bad. A thought struck him. “Does your family know you’re back?”

He could see Skulduggery visibly stiffen.

“No,” Skulduggery said, “they do not.”

“Are you going to tell them?”

“No.”

“I can understand that, as you probably know. But your elder brother and your youngest sister, you were close with them, weren’t you?”

“I was, yes.”

“So why wouldn’t you tell them?”

Skulduggery hesitated and opened his jaw to speak, and stopped. He nodded over Erskine’s shoulder. “They’re here.”

Erskine turned and saw Ghastly and Hopeless approaching, dressed in heavy clothing and guns strapped to their hips.

“Are we ready to head out?” Ghastly asked when they approached.

“We are,” Erskine said. “We were just talking.”

Ghastly raised an eyebrow and looked at Skulduggery. “You were?”

“Erskine here had some questions,” Skulduggery responded, “and I don’t think he likes silence.”

Erskine glowered slightly. “I’m fine with silence,” he said, feigning irritation, “I like the quiet.”

Hopeless grinned. “I’m sure that’s what you tell yourself every night you go to bed lonely.”

Erskine rounded on him and tried to find something to defend himself but his response died on his tongue and he was aware he was just sputtering incoherently. Ghastly suppressed a laugh and Skulduggery put his hands in his pockets, head tilting, as Hopeless’ grin widened.

“You’ve spent too much time with Dexter Vex,” Erskine said instead, “and if any of you are finding women out here in this frozen flatland, by all means, point me in their direction.”

“It’s Saracen that’s the worst of the two of them,” Ghastly said as they began walking. “He’s just asking for trouble one of these days.”

“And I hope that I’m there when he finds it,” Hopeless added.

Erskine glanced at Skulduggery. He was keeping pace with them and his skull was turned slightly in their direction. Hopeless, obviously reading Erskine’s thoughts, moved slightly so that Skulduggery was fully walking with them as a group.

“We need to find you something for your head,” Hopeless announced, and Skulduggery looked at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Something for your head,” Hopeless repeated. “When you’re back for real, you’re going to need something. A cool hat or the like.”

Ghastly nodded in agreement. “It’ll complete the look.”

Skulduggery turned his eye sockets to Ghastly. “I have a look?”

“Of course you do. We all do.” He pointed to Hopeless and then Erskine. “Hopeless’ look is something along the lines of homeless playwright and Ravel here looks like a noble with a gambling problem.”

Hopeless sputtered at his description and Erskine laughed, a full hearty laugh, something he hadn’t done in ages.

“So what’s Skulduggery’s look, then?” Erskine asked and Ghastly thought for a moment.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he said, “but I assure you it will be very cool.”

“You said a hat will _complete_ the look, though,” Hopeless pointed out.

“I did,” Ghastly responded, “but he’s also wearing temporary clothing. By then, I’ll hopefully have made something that fits much better. And then he’ll have his look.”

They went on like this for the next hour as they walked. Skulduggery would respond if spoken to, but spent most of the time walking in silence. Hopeless did most of the chatting, and Erskine guessed he was trying to make them all as comfortable as possible. They approached the camp just after sunset and climbed the slope that overlooked it.

Darkness was settling in as the four crouched and approached the crest of the hill. There were people moving about in the camp, and a fire burned in the center with maybe eight or nine tents, each seeming to hold a handful of soldiers.

“How many do you think there are?” Ghastly asked softly.

“Corrival said from our scout reports that there are probably about thirty men. It’s not a full regiment,” Erskine responded, making sure to keep his voice low. 

“I’ll get closer,” Hopeless said, and began moving forward. Erskine stopped him.

“They can’t know we’re here.”

“And they won’t. I only need to be a little closer to get a better count.”

Hopeless moved down the hill quietly, shrouded in shadow. The winter darkness had closed in quickly and Erskine shivered in the growing cold. Hopeless returned a minute later.

“I’m getting twenty, maybe thirty at the most. It looks like Corrival was right.”

They moved off the crest of the hill and stood. Skulduggery took off his gloves and slipped them into his pocket.

“I think some of them were involved in the kidnappings,” Hopeless said softly, “but I can’t be sure. I couldn’t get a good read on any of them. It seems like that’s why they were posted here.”

Skulduggery snapped his head to Hopeless but didn’t speak.

“We can wait up here,” Erskine said, “Skulduggery should approach from down below.”

Skulduggery went to walk away but Erskine held up a hand to stop him. Skulduggery didn’t stop fast enough and they bumped slightly, Erskine’s hand landing on his chest. He could feel the ribs and empty space beneath Skulduggery’s shirt.

“You understand what you’re doing, right?” Erskine said. Skulduggery didn’t respond. After a moment, his head moved slightly and Erskine moved out of his way. He reached the bottom of the slope and disappeared.

The three of them crouched at the top to watch Skulduggery approach, his skull gleaming in the dim light. He stopped just short of the camp and Erskine watched as he snapped the fingers of his left hand and dipped low before extending and thrusting a ball of flame that arched through the sky. 

A shout came from the camp as someone noticed, and Erskine saw them looking around. One of the soldiers caught sight of Skulduggery at the edge of the gloom.

“What’s this, then?” Erskine heard one of the soldiers call out. “Who are you?”

Skulduggery stepped closer and the light from their fire bounced off his skull. Eyes widened and backward steps were taken. Skulduggery stood there.

“Why isn’t he doing anything?” Erskine whispered and Hopeless shook his head.

“Are you the apparition?” The man asked. He stood before the group of soldiers that was forming behind him. “The ghostie we’ve been hearing about? You’ve been causing some of our side a little bit of trouble.”

Skulduggery didn’t move.

“I heard you were a malevolent spirit out searching for revenge. Is that it? Are you here for revenge?”

Nothing.

“You don’t seem very scary,” the soldier continued, “and what we do that you’re lookin’ for revenge out here? You’re an interesting creature. You know what? I think we’re going to try and capture you. I’m sure Mevolent or that twisted freak Serpine would love a chance to study you.”

Skulduggery shifted slightly. Ghastly leaned forward. “What’s that in his hand?”

Erskine saw Skulduggery raise his right arm, detaching it from the shadows and Erskine realized there was something large in his grasp. The soldier seemed to frown slightly and the object glinted in Skulduggery’s grip.

Erskine felt himself go cold and his heart thudded heavily in his chest as his hand flashed to the holster at his hip.

Empty.

A sharp crack ripped through the air, and the man who had spoken dropped to the ground screaming. Another crack. The one to the left dropped, blood flowing from his forehead. The men were shouting now and tent flaps opened as more of Mevolent’s soldiers emerged to chaos. There were three more cracks. Three more men went down.

“What the hell is he doing?” Hopeless asked, alarm and surprise in his voice. “And where the hell did he get that gun?”

“It’s mine,” Erskine said, breathless, “he must have snuck it off me as he passed. Ghastly, you said he understood our orders. This is going against everything we planned.”

“Someone needs to stop him,” Hopeless said and went to stand. Erskine shot his arm out.

“No! At the very least, we need to make sure they don’t know we’re here. We can’t let them see us.”

Hopeless looked at him, eyes wide, and there was another sharp crack. Erskine could feel it reverberate through his skin, an electric panic that snapped his attention back below. Every bullet had found a mark and the camp was in chaos. Some were fleeing already, some in a panicked shock, and others, though few, were preparing to fight. Skulduggery dropped the gun, now empty, and began walking forward. He snapped the fingers of both hands, fire flying into the two tents closest to him and they burst into flame.

“He needs to stop,” Hopeless said, panic lacing his words, “he needs to stop. Now.”

There was another crack as someone fired at Skulduggery. A bullet tugged at his coat and another one pierced his shirt in the abdomen, flying straight through and hitting the dirt behind him. A third smashed into his shoulder and Skulduggery jerked, taking a single step back. He stood there for a moment, frozen, and then his hand whipped up and the group before him was blasted off their feet. He resumed walking, unhurried and unbothered. Like he was simply out for a stroll.

The few who were left standing turned and ran, tripping over themselves as they went, tearing away into the darkness. A few on the ground were struggling to rise, and Skulduggery snapped his palm again and they crunched into the dirt a second time. He stopped at the soldier who had addressed him and raised his foot, putting his weight on the bullet hole in his shoulder. The man screamed, a wrenching howl of pure agony that tore from his throat, and one of his companions tried raisinging a gun from the ground. Skulduggery saw it, looked at him, clicked his fingers, and threw. The fireball hit the soldier, the gun firing and missing completely, and he, too, screamed as Skulduggery twisted his fingers, manipulating the flames.

Erskine’s blood ran cold as he watched. There was no humanity down there, he realized, and no mercy. Skulduggery was going to kill these men, and they were going to die in agony. Erskine felt like he was going to be sick.

He looked at Ghastly. His face was pale and the growing glow of the fire was dancing off the scars on his head.

“Bespoke,” Erskine hissed, “what the hell is he doing?”

“This isn’t him,” Ghastly said, his voice strangled. “Skulduggery wouldn’t do this. This isn’t him.”

“Obviously, it is! He’s torturing them, Ghastly. This isn’t a fight, it’s a massacre.”

Hopeless moved, so suddenly that Erskine didn’t have a chance to stop him. Ghastly stood in alarm and Erskine watched in horror as Hopeless tore down the slope.

“We have to stop him,” Ghastly said. Erskine opened his mouth to argue but when Ghastly looked at him, true fear and loss and regret reflecting in his eyes, Erskine found that he couldn’t. Ghastly, he realized, couldn’t lose another friend tonight. He nodded and they turned, making their way after Hopeless.

The man had a head start, and they couldn’t catch him before Hopeless reached Skulduggery. He grabbed Skulduggery’s arm, attempting to pull him back from the man he was standing on. Without even looking, Skulduggery swept his arm wide and Hopeless went flying, hitting the ground and rolling. Ghastly poured on the speed and pulled away from Erskine.

Skulduggery seemed to sense his approach and started to turn, but could do nothing to stop the fist that crashed into his cheek. He reeled back, and Ghastly moved in, sending another punch to the ribs. He went for a third, but a hand flashed up, the bones of Skulduggery’s hand curling around Ghastly’s fist. Erskine could see the snarl behind the impassive skull as Skulduggery’s other hand pressed against Ghastly’s chest, and the man shot backward. He landed a few feet from Erskine in a tangled heap.

Erskine felt the breath leave him. He had no idea how much power Skulduggery could wield and a shot to the chest like that could easily have killed him. Ghastly rolled over and coughed as Erskine sprinted over, and relief flooded through him. 

He looked up as he heard a shout. Skulduggery was facing away from them, already forgetting that they were there, and walking towards the group of soldiers he had hit with those blasts of air. The few that were conscious looked at him with terrified eyes and tried to scramble away.

“You were involved,” Erskine heard Skulduggery say. “Tell me where he is. Where is Nefarian?”

There was another shout, louder and stronger this time, and Erskine saw Hopeless struggling to his feet.

“Skulduggery!” He yelled. “Skulduggery, stop!”

Skulduggery didn’t stop. He didn’t even pause.

Hopeless took an unsteady step forward, and Erskine could see the pain and fear and anger twist across his face.

“Skulduggery Pleasant,” Hopeless thundered, “god damn it, stop and look at me!”

Skulduggery froze. The soldiers on the ground stared at him as he raised his head, painfully slow, and looked back at where the command had come from. The fire crackled in the air and the heat rolled off into the night sky in waves and the embers danced through the darkness without beauty. Skulduggery stood there, drenched in that burning light, unmoving.

Hopeless took another step forward. Skulduggery watched him. Another step. Erskine realized that Hopeless was limping. Skulduggery didn’t move.

Skulduggery’s jaw opened and his voice, though quiet, drifted across the camp. It was dry, and cracked and broken. “Hopeless?”

Erskine thought the man might cry as relief flooded Hopeless face, and he took another step forward.

“What’s going on?” Skulduggery asked, not looking around. “What are you doing?”

“What am I doing?” Hopeless responded. “What are _you_ doing? Skulduggery, look around! This isn’t what we were sent here to do!”

Skulduggery’s head swiveled slowly like he hadn’t realized where he was. His eye sockets passed over Erskine kneeling next to Ghastly and then returned, their weight landing on them heavily. Erskine clenched his jaw, prepared for anything.

“Did I do this?” Skulduggery asked.

Hopeless took another step closer. “You mean you don’t remember?”

Skulduggery was still looking at Erskine and Ghastly. 

“I’m fine,” Ghastly grunted, sitting up. Erskine held out a hand to steady him. “Nothing I couldn’t take.”

“Skulduggery,” Hopeless said softly, only a few steps away, “what just happened?”

Skulduggery didn’t move. His gaze didn’t waver. His jaw opened and he started to speak, and then cut himself off.

“I’m not-- I don’t know.” His head turned to Hopeless. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Hopeless said. “There are other things I’m more concerned about.”

Erskine watched as Skulduggery’s knees buckled and Hopeless darted the last few feet to catch him. They stood there like that for a few moments, Hopeless supporting Skulduggery, Skulduggery with his skull pointed at the ground.

And then Skulduggery stood, and they watched him as he straightened, tugging at his jacket. His hands slipped into his pocket, retrieving his gloves, and he slipped them on.

“My apologies,” he said. “I got distracted. Lost myself for a moment. That is unacceptable and I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

Ghastly pushed himself from the ground and Erskine stood with him, not taking his eyes off the skeleton.

“Skulduggery,” he asked, “what the hell was that?”

Skulduggery looked at him but didn’t respond.

“That was more than distraction, Skulduggery. I understand these are our enemies, but you can’t just march in here and kill all of them. That makes you no better than Vengeous or Mevolent or Serpine.”

No response. Just that empty, black pit of a gaze.

Anger blossomed in Erskine's chest and he took a step forward.

“We are fine,” he heard himself hiss, “giving you space. With letting you recover. With not pressing for answers. But this is not something you get to just stand there and be silent about. You need to start talking. Now.”

Skulduggery looked away into the darkness. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “All I could think about was them and Serpine and that castle. It felt like I was back in that bag in the river and it was… too much. I needed to let it out.”

The fire crackled around them and Skulduggery shook his head softly, almost to himself. “I’m not a murderer,” he said quietly.

“We can’t tell Corrival,” Hopeless said, and Erskine snapped his head to him. “We need to come up with a story.”

“Why not?” Erskine snapped. “This isn’t some petty little mistake. Skulduggery is dangerous and Corrival needs to know. Meritorious needs to know.”

He saw Skulduggery turn his skull to him and Erskine met his empty gaze.

“This was your chance to prove we could trust you,” he said. “Instead, you steal my gun and almost massacre a camp full of men. What are we supposed to think, Skulduggery?”

Movement registered in the corner of Erskine’s eye but he couldn’t turn fast enough before Hopeless struck him. It was weak and poorly aimed and Erskine didn’t even need to take a step back.

“I told you we should have waited,” Hopeless snarled. “I told you this was a bad idea and he needed time to recover. Don’t you dare brush this all off on him. He won't say it, but Ghastly is thinking the same thing.”

Skulduggery took a step forward. “I think,” he started to say, but Hopeless rounded on him.

“And you,” Hopeless said. “Ravel is not wrong. This was your chance to prove yourself to us. What would your wife think if she saw you here now?”

Skulduggery didn’t say anything and Erskine immediately felt some of his anger dissipate at those words.

“So here’s what we’re going to do,” Hopeless continued. “We’re going to tell Corrival that Skulduggery did what he was told, but they fought back and he was cut off. The three of us set fire to their tents as a distraction and helped Skulduggery escape. We had to kill some men. End of story.”

He looked at Skulduggery. “We’re giving you a second chance, but one of us will stay with you at all times, until we know for sure you can be trusted.”

“This isn’t something we can just pretend didn’t happen, Hopeless. What about these men?” Ghastly asked, gesturing to the ruined camp around them. “There are still soldiers here.”

Erskine sighed heavily. “We can’t do anything. We’ll leave them, let their compatriots collect their injured and dead. We need to get back to our camp and alert Corrival. Those that have already fled will be notifying their superiors and we need to be prepared for retaliation.”

“Do you think they will?”

Erskine shrugged and turned, facing the cold night and long walk they had ahead of them. “It’s something we should be prepared for. Revenge is one hell of a motivator, it seems.”

They left the camp burning and the light and the heat of the fire slowly faded away behind them. The four walked in silence, unsure of what to say or how to say it and too many emotions in the way to even begin to try. Erskine felt the weight of what happened settle on his shoulders and tried to shrug it of. Such was war, he told himself, and failed to believe it.

There was no hint of emotion in Skulduggery’s movements or on that white skull skull of his. The grin stayed fixed, the sockets empty, and it seemed to float in the darkness like death incarnate, a force too powerful for any man to control. He walked apart from them, silent. A ghost, it seemed, even to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been dreading writing this chapter, and here we are. It's finally out of the way. 
> 
> Now, to take a look at what's going on in other parts of the battlefield...


	10. Tricks and Treason

A few days later, somewhere across the battlefield and far from those sounds of gunfire, a man stalked through a castle.

It was always a castle. It had to be. Ever since the dawn of their creation, where some idiot decided to stack stones atop each other, call it a dwelling, and turn it into a competition to see who could create the biggest rock pile, castles had become synonymous with power, status, and pretentiousness. They were laughably extravagant and wildly impractical, and this castle in particular was one of the most extravagant and one of the most impractical. It was glaringly conspicuous, for one thing, and ridiculously large, for another, and Baron Vengeous had gotten lost no less than five separate times. He hated castles and he hoped, very dearly, that they were the first things the Faceless Ones razed to the ground upon their return. 

But Mevolent had selected this castle as his dwelling of choice, and Vengeous had no option but to deal with it.

He swept through the halls, sorcerers and soldiers clambering out of his way and pressing themselves against the wall, gazes cast downwards. This was the usual reaction, out of respect and out of fear, and he reveled in it, in the power his presence had over them. But today Vengeous was in a mood so terrible it practically scorched the air around him. He wanted one of these maggots to look at him, to sneak a peek at his terrible glory, and he wanted to see the fear in their eyes while they realized their mistake as he reduced them to a mess of blood and gristle. But no one did, and Vengeous kept walking.

It took him much too long to find where he was looking for after taking what he assumed to be a few wrong turns, and his mood had grown exponentially worse. The door he arrived at was a dark oak and closed, with a single torch burning next to it, sending flickering shadows to dance on the wall. Vengeous put his hand to the handle and he shoved the door open.

The room beyond was full and eclectic, but painstakingly so. The walls were lined with shelves that held oddities and curiosities that Vengeous could only dream of understanding, and books so old and rare he doubted most scholars even knew they existed. He had been told about the items in this room, and he had heard rumors further still of the secrets it held. It didn’t impress Vengeous. It all seemed so very pointless.

There was a man sitting behind a large wooden desk, a pen scratching audibly on the parchment before him. He didn’t raise his head as the door slammed open and hit the wall, nor when Vengeous stopped before his desk. 

Vengeous stood there for the briefest of moments, and felt the thread of his patience stretch and fray further before snapping completely. His teeth clenched and his fist slammed to the table, rattling the inkwell. The pen didn’t stop and the man didn’t flinch.

“What the hell,” Vengeous hissed, “did you do?”

The pen stopped, finally, and Nefarian Serpine raised his head, blinking those green eyes like he had just noticed someone else was in the room.

“Baron,” he said, “what a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Vengeous narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know what sort of trick or scheme you’re playing at, but it ends here. Now.”

Serpine raised an elegantly groomed eyebrow. “I’m not quite sure what trick you’re referring to, and I can assure you that I am orchestrating no schemes. Not at the moment, at least.”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Nefarian. I know he’s back.”

There was a slight pause and then Serpine laid the pen delicately beside the parchment. “Who is back, exactly?”

“There was an attack on a group of our soldiers. They said one man killed eight of them before being stopped. They said they barely escaped with their lives.”

“And does this man have a name?”

“They said it was Skulduggery Pleasant.”

Vengeous watched as those gloriously glittering eyes widened in surprise. And then his brow furrowed slightly and he shook his head. “Preposterous. I killed Pleasant myself. His body was burned and I was there when they threw his remains in that river. He’s dead. He’s gone.”

“He was gone,” Vengeous said, “and now he’s back.”

Serpine looked at him and his face settled into a mask of indifference. He waved his hand and the door swung shut behind them. Vengeous watched as a sigil burned briefly by the handle, and then faded away. Serpine stood.

“A sound seal,” he said. “We won’t be overheard. What do you mean he’s back?”

“You’ve heard about the apparition that’s been attacking our troops the last few months. It appeared a few nights ago and killed several of our men, except this time, there were others with it. One of them was Erskine Ravel. We had some of our psychics search the surviving memories and confirm. Do you recall what the apparition looked like? What it was made of?”

Serpine didn’t respond for a long moment and Vengeous could practically see the thoughts flying through his head. 

“You think I have something to do with it,” he said, finally.

“You were the last one to see him alive, Nefarian. Is this one of your little tricks gone wrong? One of your experiments? Or is it something much more sinister? More treacherous?”

Those eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like what you’re implying. Do you presume I am so careless with my work, Baron? I did what Mevolent asked, and I did it extremely well, I might add. I killed him and I burned him and the man should be dead.”

“Did you kill him with that… thing?” Vengeous asked, his gaze moving to Serpines gloved hands and not bothering to keep the contempt from his face. He could practically smell the stench of necromancy and his lip curled. It was the magic of savages and blasphemers, with their order and their temples, worshiping death instead of the Faceless Ones, their true masters. It disgusted him.

“Of course I did,” Serpine snapped, “and it did so quite effectively. Do you see any of the other people I killed getting up and walking around? I don’t think so. Whatever is going on here, I can assure you, I have no part in it.”

Vengeous observed Serpine for a moment. He didn’t care for the man, as a person. He was too ambitious, too unpredictable, and he valued his secrets and his knowledge more than his dedication to the Faceless. But Vengeous could not deny that he was a powerful ally and a cunning individual. This was too careless for him, too unwieldy, and too messy. Serpine was not one to leave loose ends. No, he decided, this was not Serpine’s doing.

“He’s looking for you,” Vengeous said, and Serpine raised an eyebrow.

“Not doing a very good job, apparently.”

“He wants to kill you.”

“He’s wanted to kill me for a long time now. This is nothing new.”

“Do you know how he’s back?”

“I don’t. It could be the necromancers, or it could be a desperate ploy by the resistance. In either case, I fully plan on finding out.” Serpine paused. “Does Mevolent know?”

“I’m sure news has reached him by now, but I have yet to speak with him.”

The man nodded thoughtfully. “I should speak with him, too. This is all very intriguing. So he’s what? A ghost? A zombie?”

“Not a ghost and there’s nothing left to zombify. It seems he can still use magic.”

“So he’s something else entirely. Fascinating. Completely astounding and utterly infuriating. Do we know where he is now?”

“We don’t, though I assume with the regiment stationed nearby.”

Serpine shook his head. “No. After this, they’ll be taking him to one of their new little sanctuaries. They’ll want to keep him close. Study him, perhaps. I’m almost jealous.” He turned his head slightly. “Any word on our recent deserter?”

Vengeous couldn’t keep the scowl from sweeping across his face. “None. She’s disappeared. We have teams out searching for her, but I don’t like our chances.”

“I never liked that woman. She was too self centered for my tastes.”

Vengeous raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? That’s the same thing she said about you.”

Serpine laughed slightly. “I’m not surprised. But China Sorrows is also a distinctly hardy individual. She will be difficult to pin down. Did you have any idea she was planning this?”

“No. I assume her scum of a brother played a hand in it. We’ll find her, though.”

Serpine smiled softly. “And will you kill her when you do?”

“The Church is not something you can simply turn your back on,” Vengeous said. “She’ll rejoin the fold, once she realizes her mistake. Her punishment, at that point, will be left up to the dark gods.”

“And what if she refuses?”

“Then I will be the one to kill her.”

Serpine nodded, satisfied. “This is quite the interesting turn of events. Skulduggery Pleasant and China Sorrows, two particularly powerful adversaries. And if he’s as dead as you say he is, Pleasant has admittedly become all that more dangerous.”

Vengeous watched as Serpine moved his head slowly, thoughtfully. “I appreciate you bringing this to my awareness,” he said as his eyes drifted across the many objects lining the walls, “and I can assure you that it will be receiving my attention. You are off to Mevolent, no doubt?”

“I am. We need to discuss our next move.”

There was another nod. Serpine folded himself gently into the leather chair and picked up the pen, dipping it into the inkwell slightly. “I have matters that I must finish attending here, but I will join you shortly. Though I admit that tactical battlefield strategy is not my forte.”

The sound of the pen scratching against parchment once again filled the room as Vengeous turned to leave. He offered no pleasantries or farewells as he stepped out into the hall. It was empty and the fire crackled in the bracket as the door clicked softly shut, plunging Vengeous into silence. He stood there for a moment, realizing his anger was gone, and he offered a prayer to the Faceless Ones before turning on his heel and walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter and a new perspective this time, but hopefully interesting! I like writing Serpine. He's so gloriously pretentious.
> 
> Headcanon: Vengeous is a minimalist and he hates all things fancy and opulent. He's like the vegan of material items.


	11. A Fiend All Around

The rain lashed sideways, crashing silently to the earth through the dark of the night as hoofbeats thumped frantically through the mud. The wind whipped by, howling, and there was no other sound but that rhythmic pounding and the panting breath from the water slicked steed. It was a silent blessing that China had been riding from such a young age and that her expertise had only since grown as she urged the horse forward, navigating through the darkness. 

China couldn’t see them, invisible through the blackness and rain, but she knew they were there. It was no surprise that she was being hunted, she had fully expected it the moment that chapel had been set on fire, but it seemed that China had underestimated Vengeous and the hunters he sent after her. That was a mistake, and one that she wouldn’t make again.

Something flashed past her, and China cursed, the energy stream barely missing her head. They were behind her, and close enough to know where she was. They had found her in a little village a few miles away from her destination, where she had decided to stop when the storm had hit, not imagining Vengeous’ men were so close on her heels. The city of Dublin was close, and the newly established sanctuary there was expecting China. Her brother had assured her safety upon her arrival. She knew as soon as she arrived she would be thrown into a cell, perhaps even killed. China didn’t mind. That was better than being dragged back to Vengeous, battered and humiliated, and that was certainly better than dying here in the rain and the muck.

She heard the gun fire, but it barely registered before her mount buckled, crashing to the ground. China hit the mud and rolled, coming to an ungraceful stop. She was up in an instant and running, her fingers finding the symbols on her shins. Her cloak was long, but it billowed behind her and did nothing to hide the bright blue that flashed periodically from below her hemline as her legs pushed her forwards. The magic surged through her muscles and propelled her further, faster, practically flying across the ground. China imagined this was how her horses felt when they ran, the speed and strength coursing through them. She wondered if they were this scared, too.

She leaped a boulder and almost fell, slipping in the mud and the grass. She couldn’t afford to be sloppy. Not now. If she fell, China didn’t think she would get up. They would be on her in an instant, and it would all be over.

The sound of hoofbeats thundered over her shoulder and China tapped the fingertips of her right hand and then flung them behind her. Shards of blue light shot from the symbols there and she heard a panicked yell. There were more hoofbeats now, though, and China leapt over another rock, the strength her magic supplied rocketing her through the air. The ground rushed up to meet her and she readied herself for the slick landing, but something struck her squarely in the shoulder and she spun, hitting the ground with her heels before continuing around and landing face first into the mud for a second time.

Her left arm wouldn’t obey, wouldn’t support her weight as she tried to push herself up, and China could feel the blade of the dagger shifting as she moved. It was an impressive throw. Jaw clenched, China reached, gripping the hilt with slick fingers, and pulled. It was an awkward angle, probably doing more damage than anything else, and China hissed in pain. But now she had a weapon, something sturdy in her hand, and the weight was a reassurance, empty as though it was.

Her pursuers thundered through the rain, circling her, cutting off escape like a vortex of sweat and hot breath and pounding hooves. China raised the dagger with her right hand and gritted her teeth, slowly raising her left, fingers clenched in a fist. There were six of them. She hoped, ruefully, that there had been seven and her far flung attack had taken one of them down, and then doubted it. Luck, China thought, was not on her side tonight.

One of the riders pulled their horse to a stop, moving inside the circle as their compatriots continued. The figure dropped, boots landing with a sick squelching noise, looking at China. They were young, and male, but it was difficult to make out any more than that in the darkness. She was fairly certain she had no idea who he was.

“China,” the man said, voice raised to be heard over the rain and the thumping, “stop this pointless running and surrender.”

“I have no idea who you are,” China responded, “and I don’t care. We are not friends. Do not refer to me with such casual disregard.”

The man observed her for a moment. “We were instructed not to kill you, Miss Sorrows, but we have no such instructions against hurting you. Lower the weapon and we can leave here without bloodshed.”

“You may not be able to kill me, but I do not have the same qualms against killing you. Leave. Now.”

“You cannot fight us.”

“I most certainly can.”

“In which case you have no hope of winning. You need to come with us.”

She laughed and it was sharp and brittle. “I’m afraid the only way I will be doing that is if you kill me first, and I have no intention of dying here. My shoes and my hair are covered in mud, and when I die, it will be in dignity and in style. For you, however, I think this is quite perfect.”

China snapped her hand open and the glowing symbol on her palm flashed red, sending out a beam of sizzling light that slammed into one of the horsemen circling her while she threw the dagger with the other. It sliced through the air and the man dove into the mud to avoid it in the darkness.

Something came at her and China dodged back, barely avoiding the blade that sliced past her arm. She responded by slapping a hand on the rear of the horse as it passed, searing into its flesh. China barely registered its scream of pain before she was crouching low and tapping the symbols etched into her forearms. When she stood, they were glowing an electric blue that flared as she flung her arms open. A wall of energy shot forward, knocking the man who had spoken to her backwards as he tried to stand, and China spun, her fingers sending out concentrated blasts to the rider behind her.

Something hit the back of China's knee and it buckled. Something else hit her shoulder and she cried out in pain. Blinding light exploded behind her eyes as she was hit a third time and China went weightless for a moment, her mind a blank slate swept with pain. She felt her face squish into mud and she lay there, feeling how cold it was. She felt the rain sting her cheek. She felt like she was going to pass out. Good. Let it happen. She wanted nothing more than for the darkness to overtake her mind and numb the pulsating pain inside her skull.

There were voices, but China couldn’t focus enough to make out what they were saying. Her limbs were heavy and her vision blurry as boots squelched into view. Something nudged her and she was rolled onto her back, her body a thick, lifeless thing. She closed her eyes as the person spoke, letting the rain dance on her eyelids.

 _Get up,_ a voice said, and China ignored it.

 _Get up,_ it repeated. _Don’t let them kill you, fiend._

Her thoughts registered slightly through the fog in her mind and China frowned slightly. Was she talking to herself? Had she been hit that hard? No. This was something else. Someone else.

 _We found you,_ the voice said. _We’re here._

There was a sickening thwack from above China and something landed heavily by her head. She opened her eyes and turned her head slowly, fighting the darkness that was attempting to take over her mind, and was met with the empty gaze of the man who had confronted her. The tip of an arrow was protruding from his forehead.

There were more shouts, confused now. China returned her gaze to the sky as those shouts turned to panic. More arrows flashed through her vision and she was aware of more people, storming the area. Some of her pursuers tried to mount and flee, but they were picked off by figures China could barely make out in the corners of her vision. The sounds of struggle were brief, and then the night was silent. China liked the silence. She always had.

Footsteps moved towards her ears and China blinked as a figure stood over her, blurry and unfocused. They gazed at her, eyes piercing the night, and China felt nothing as the darkness passed across her eyes. And then there was nothing but blessed silence.

When her eyes opened again, they shut instantly. Sunlight was streaming and sending blinding rays down upon her, doing nothing for the splitting headache that pounded in China’s temples. She lay there for a moment, collecting herself, before slowly opening an eye and taking in her surroundings.

She was in a small stone room, alone, and the bed she lay on consisted of woven straw placed atop a slab protruding from the wall. There was a window, the source of the light, and it was barred. A door stood closed across from her and the hole in its wood was also barred. A small slat sat below it, and the room held nothing else.

A cell. She was in a cell.

China raised herself into a sitting position, forcing down the groan that threatened to pass her lips. Her hand landed on something as she straightened, and she lifted it. It was fabric, rough and the color of dust, and it took China a moment of maneuvering and scrutiny to realize it was a shirt. She felt her lip curl. It was hideous. It even had those crude drawstrings down the chest to pull the thing closed. She looked down at the slab. There was something else there, most likely the trousers. 

China dropped the shirt onto the ground at her feet and examined herself. Her head was pounding, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The knife wound on her shoulder she could feel was bandaged and was only slightly sore as she slowly rolled the muscles there. Someone had healed her-- not to the best of healing capabilities, obviously, but she had been healed nonetheless. That was a good sign.

The top she wore, once a striking emerald green, was ruined. The slash on her shoulder had opened up the fabric there, and whoever had healed her hadn’t been gentle with it either. There was crusted mud all down the front of her, and China could feel how stiff her hair was, matted with dirt and blood and her clothes sent motes of dirt into the air as she moved.

China looked at her shoes. She looked at the shirt on the floor.

She wasn’t going to wear it. It was hideous. At least, sitting here covered in dried dirt and crusted blood, she looked like she had been in a fight and her clothes were obviously still tasteful. The clothes that had been left for her, however, were not, and China had no intention of looking like some common prisoner.

Leaning back against the cold stone, China waited. She didn’t have to wait long before she heard footsteps echoing outside her door. It was a long hallway, apparently, and she could tell from the echoes that there were two people. One set of steps were quick and light, scuttling across the floor and the other pair were solid and confident and deliberate. It sounded like the first was struggling to keep up.

China folded her hands on her lap and sat up straight, attempting an air of dignified nonchalance. She must have looked like a sight, sitting so prim and proper while ripped and bruised. The footsteps slowed as they neared before stopping completely.

“She’s in this one,” a man's voice said. It was high pitched and breathy, like the sound a mosquito would make and it grated against China’s nerves. “I have to ask you not to go in.”

The second individual didn’t answer, but they moved in front of the door. The little window was about two hand lengths high and three lengths long, so China could see clearly the face that appeared. Not that she needed to see the face to know who it was. All she needed were the eyes.

Mr. Bliss stood there, his face expressionless. China gave him a small smile, keeping her face devoid of any emotion. The smile, she was sure, didn’t reach her eyes.

“Brother,” she said, “lovely to see you again.”

Bliss didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “You were two days late,” he said, his voice deep and measured.

China gave him a little laugh, delicate and unintimidated. “What can I say? I had to take a few detours. Mevolents men were much better than I had anticipated. How did you find me?”

“Don’t tell her that,” the wimpy voice said, but Bliss ignored him.

“We have a perimeter set around the city,” he said. “You triggered it when you crossed the boundary.”

China raised her eyebrow. “A security ring? Who is your signum linguist? I didn’t even realize it was there, I must commend them. Though I was slightly preoccupied, I admit.”

“That is none of your business,” the other man's voice said. 

He annoyed her. 

“I am speaking to my brother, little man,” she said, voice cold. “Why don’t you run off and make us some tea.”

She could practically feel him bristle through the door. 

“I am this sanctuary’s administrator,” he said, obviously agitated, “and you are our prisoner. I do not take orders from you, fiend.”

Something about that comment tugged at her mind and she frowned slightly, remembering.

“Someone spoke to me last night,” China said, turning her attention back to Bliss, “directly into my mind.”

“One of our operatives. A communicative psychic,” he said. “We had a scouting squad on alert for your arrival, and they were in charge of relaying instructions to you, if necessary.”

“Since when did you take part in scouting missions? That’s very unlike you, brother. Was it just for me?”

He didn’t respond, simply looked at her and she laughed.

“I’m so honored,” she said, “that you worry about my safety.”

“I do not worry about your safety,” he responded, “I worry about the safety of the information you hold. Tell me how you escaped.”

China shifted slightly to lean against the wall. Her shoulder was stiff.

“It wasn’t too difficult. I don’t think anyone would have guessed that I of all people would become a deserter. I simply fled. After burning down one of the temples, of course.”

“So you have turned your back on the dark gods?”

China hesitated slightly. “I haven’t fully decided yet,” she said, “but I have certainly turned my back on the church. I’m sure you’re pleased, brother, now that I’ve finally followed in your footsteps. I suppose this is the end of us trying to kill each other. A pity. I quite enjoyed the challenge you posed.”

“I’m slightly disappointed,” she continued. “I had hoped to have been introduced to the new council of elders. I have heard tell of Grand Mage Meritorious and would like to meet him.”

“The council has other matters to attend to,” the little man spoke again, “they do not have time to deal with scum like you.”

China closed her eyes and sighed. The pounding in her temples had receded slightly and she could feel her thoughts organizing themselves. She almost felt back to normal.

“Please,” she said, letting out a displeased sigh, “shut him up. His voice does nothing for my headache.”

The man spluttered. China still couldn’t see him.

“You do _not_ speak to me like that! I am the--”

“Administrator,” China cut him off. “So you’ve said. But it seems to me that it is no more than the position of glorified lap dog. Heel, little man, and let the masters speak.”

China thought she saw a glimmer of amusement in her brother's pale blue eyes as the man continued to sputter indignantly, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“We had a healer mend some of your wounds,” Bliss said, “and I have come to tell you that you will be sent for when we are ready to gather your information.”

“Will it be you questioning me, or will it be someone else? Please refrain from sending someone incompetent or I may be inclined not to speak.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I’m sure I have a little choice. I’ll tell you what you need to know, so long as I’m not annoyed. That is a rather fair compromise, in my opinion.”

“We will find the information we want to know. There is no need for you to willingly tell us anything.”

China raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to torture me while you question me? Quite uncivilized.”

“We will not be questioning you at all. We have psychics that can find the answers for us.”

“They can certainly try. But I should warn you, my defenses are strong.”

“They are nothing we can’t handle.”

China laughed. “I don’t think you understand, dear brother. They aren’t there to _deter_ psychics prodding around in my head. They’re there to _ensure_ them from doing so. I’m afraid that if any of your lovely people try and poke about, the safeguards Mevolent has placed in my mind will activate and kill me. Instant brain death, to be blunt.”

Bliss looked at her silently, his face stone.

“Of course,” China continued, trying not to let her pleasure show, “I could be lying. In which case, there would be no harm in trying. But I promise you, I am not. Mevolent required this of all his closest allies. We know too much. He would prefer us die than hand over any of his secrets. I ask you; is that a risk you’re willing to take?”

The annoying man spoke again. “She’s lying. We cannot take her word.”

Bliss didn’t respond. China sighed.

“If it does kill her,” he continued, “it’s one less enemy to worry about.”

“She is not lying,” Bliss said finally.

“Do not let your personal feelings cloud your judgement.”

China watched as her brother’s icy gaze moved slowly as he turned his head to his compatriot. China could practically feel the man whither through the door and she felt a grin tug at her lips.

“I have no personal feelings on the matter,” Bliss said, “and my judgement is never clouded. Go alert the grand mage and tell him we will be questioning her instead.”

The man protested slightly, but China heard his footsteps echo as he walked away. Bliss looked at her through the bars.

“He was a rather annoying little man,” China said, “and I didn’t even get to see him. What is his name?”

“Why would you care?”

China shrugged. “I don’t.”

Bliss didn’t say anything for the longest time. “Mevolent will continue to hunt you.”

“I’m sure he will.”

“He will not stop until he finds you.”

“I _am_ quite desirable.”

“There are many here who want you dead.”

China shrugged again. “And yet I have faith in you, dear brother. I know you understand how valuable an asset I am, and I’m sure Grand Mage Meritorious is no fool, either.”

Bliss looked at her and China looked back, looked at those beautiful pale blue eyes. They were the only thing that might have marked them as family.

He turned, suddenly, and strode away. China knew it wasn’t from intimidation. Her brother was never intimidated. Bliss had simply considered the conversation over, and left.

The cell was silent again, and China looked at the fabric at the end of her slab. She shifted, slightly, and felt the mud crack and flake against her skin. She had an itch, somewhere on her back, and she felt as if the dirt were seeping into her, crawling through every pore to dirty her insides. It was all so very disgusting.

China sighed, resolving herself, and began to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! A more normal length chapter.
> 
> The fact that I just got off break and my university is approaching hell week combined with how I've enjoyed writing about Skul's return and his compatriots so much made starting this chapter a bit of a drag. Once I got in a groove, though, it was nice to write from China's perspective again.
> 
> I was participating in NaNoWriMo and getting more headway on my novel (just a little over 40,000 words this time), which meant I didn't have much time for this. Hopefully I'll be back on a more reliable schedule now and can do more pleasure writing.


	12. Interim

It was a dark and stormy night, and when the man died, he died screaming. The woman who came next was no different, and as lightning split the sky, it drowned out the wretched pitch of her cries. It was a child, after her, and then another man, and then another. For days, there seemed to be no pattern to the people brought to the godforsaken shack next to a river swollen with the rain and the misery that permeated the ground. No one knew their names. No one here cared. They were subjects, nothing more. 

It seemed as if there was an endless supply of them, each led in no particular order and at no particular time to the squalid little building. They were marched from the nearby camp one by one, led behind tents and away from the inhabitants. If they did happen to pass anyone while they were being forced to their deaths, they were paid no attention. These people were not worth any time. They were prisoners. Scum. Mortals. All synonymous.

A figure moved through the darkness, shoulders hunched and a hood pulled low over their eyes. They approached a man standing straight and seemingly unperturbed by the wind and the rain, stopping a few feet short.

“It’s my shift,” the cloaked man said. “How many left?”

“Three,” the second man replied, “and one more on the table. I suspect they won’t last long though.”

There was a scowl in the voice of the first man as he took a few steps forward, peering over the edge of the gaping pit dug into the earth. “Looks like we’ll be digging another hole, then. This one’s getting full. I’m getting tired of digging holes.”

“It’s the easiest way to dispose of them.”

“We could burn them. Make some heat while we're at it.”

“That’s a little too conspicuous.”

“But it would be warm.”

“We’re trying to keep this thing as quiet as possible. Massive pyres would be sure to attract unwanted attention.”

“But it would be _warm_.”

The second man, a dark haired individual, slipped his hands into his pockets and chuckled slightly. “It _would_ be a nice change. Beats the smell. At least this wind is blowing away from my tent.”

They were silent for a moment.

“How long do you think this’ll go for?” The cloaked man asked. A gust of wind buffeted him, threatening to blow back his hood. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

The second shrugged. “Who knows. We don’t even know what it’s looking for.”

“Mevolent seems to think it has potential.”

The man looked at his compatriot, an eyebrow raised. “And how do you know what Mevolent thinks?”

“Well, he’s got to, right? Otherwise, we’re just wasting our time out here. Whatever is going on in there is important.”

“Your curiosity might get you into trouble.”

The head shook beneath the hood. “Oh no. Not me. Whatever it’s doing, whatever tests it’s running, I don’t care, as long as I’m not the one on that table. When’s the new shipment of prisoners due?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. A fresh batch of mortals. From Prague, I think.”

A sharp scream pierced the night and it was carried away as quickly as it came.

“I think that’s your cue,” the dark haired man said. “Be careful, it seemed to be in some sort of mood. It threw one of it’s instruments at me when I let the door close too hard.”

The man turned and walked away, and the figure in the cloak stood there for a moment. The pit was long, and deep, and shapeless mounds were barely visible in the gloom. The cloaked man was glad he wasn’t here during the day. He didn’t much fancy rotting meat.

He sighed. Lighting cracked, thunder rolled, and the wind howled as he turned and went to fetch another corpse to add to the pile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short? Yes. Important? Yes. Am I working on the next, longer chapter? Yes. Do I know when it will be done?
> 
> No.
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!


	13. Willingness and Honesty

Skulduggery was laying on the cot when Ghastly arrived back at his tent. The air was cold and still and a well-burned candle flickered dimly on the chest. Nothing had moved in here for a while. 

Ghastly paused in the doorway, startled slightly, not even aware that Skulduggery had been discharged from medical. He lay on his back, his right arm stretched straight by his side and the other resting gently on his chest. 

Ghastly watched him. It didn’t even seem like Skulduggery knew he was there. He was perfectly still, skull pointed at the ceiling of the tent. His eyes didn’t open in acknowledgement, as there were no eyes to do so and his chest didn’t rise with breath, as there were no lungs to fill them with. Stillness permeated the air. Even the candle, its wick almost completely burned away, seemed to cease its flickering. Ghastly felt like an intruder.

Which was ridiculous, of course. This was his tent. Skulduggery, he was sure, wasn’t even supposed to be here. And yet, he was, lying there in the almost darkness. Ghastly frowned, and stepped in. He undid his belt and it came away, the loss of the weight of his firearm and blade a comforting relief after hours of standing on his feet. He tossed them and they thumped to the ground by the chest. Ghastly stole a glance at Skulduggery. Nothing.

Ghastly continued. He grabbed his waterskin and pulled a cloth pouch from his jacket, opening it to reveal a few pieces of dried meat. He sat, and ate, and read the letter he had received that morning. It was from his mother. Skulduggery still didn’t move.

Was he sleeping? Ghastly glanced at him again. Did he need sleep? He hadn’t asked Skulduggery that. Ghastly didn’t know why he would. Skulduggery didn’t need to breathe or eat, but Ghastly wasn’t sure about sleeping. He felt annoyance beginning to rise in his chest, and he forced it down. He wasn’t being ignored, was he? In his own tent, no less, by someone who wasn’t even supposed to be there. No, he decided. Skulduggery must be sleeping.

The secret was out now, and there was nothing they could have done about it. Corrival had taken Skulduggery to the medical tent himself when they returned two days earlier and instructed the doctor there to do what they could. The few soldiers that laid in the beds there stared in horror at the skeleton standing in the middle of the space, and it had taken a fair amount of coaxing and explaining from Ravel to get the doctor to take even one step in Skulduggery's direction. Corrival called for attention, soon after, and announced to the whole camp both of Skulduggery’s return and his aid in the successful mission of storming the nearby enemy encampment. 

None of them told Corrival what had really happened.

The medics did the best they could, setting Skulduggery’s bones and wrapping them in a special salve and he was forced to stay in the medical tent. No one was allowed in after that. No one was allowed to speak with him. Ghastly, Hopeless, and Ravel all returned to normal procedures, and rumors spread like wildfire.

Ghastly stood, tucking the now empty pouch into his pocket and leaving the waterskin on the dirt, and took a step to the cot. Skulduggery still hadn’t moved, hadn’t even shifted, and Ghastly took a moment to look at him. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, and in the low light, Ghastly could see bandages criss crossing across the bones. 

The tent stayed quiet as Ghastly stood there. He had observed Skulduggery, of course, but knowing that he was awake and those empty eye sockets could turn in Ghastly’s direction at any moment kept him from examining Skulduggery too closely. That, and the unsettling air that seemed to permeate the space around him. He was distant. Unnerving. A different man and one that Ghastly didn’t recognize in more ways than he liked. Ghastly peered a little harder, fully aware how creepy he was being.

Skulduggery’s skull was clean and white, and Ghastly briefly wondered if the fire had burned everything away. He doubted it, and then pushed the thought of Skulduggery needing to rid his bones of the ravaged and fire charred leftovers of his old body on the banks of that river from his mind. Ghastly looked at him, trying to imagine his friends face over that exposed bone. He could see the strong jaw and the mouth that was most often pulled back in a smile. The cheekbones were just as prominent. Ghastly could almost picture with absolute clarity the mess of dark hair that would have sat on top of his head.

And then Ghastly felt his jaw tighten as he looked at those empty pits where Skulduggery’s eyes used to be, and he was hit with a wave of apprehension. Death, when he looked at those, was all that gazed back.

“I can see you staring at me.”

His hand flashed to his hip instinctively as Ghastly jumped, reaching for the firearm that wasn’t there. Skulduggery remained unnervingly still, but his skull moved, turning to look at Ghastly.

He glared at him, the surprise and fear fading away. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought you were sleeping.”

The skull moved again, turning back up to the ceiling of the tent. 

“Sleep,” Skulduggery said, “would be wonderful.”

"Why didn't you move when I came in? 

"I was lost in thought, I suppose. I apologize."

Ghastly straightened and felt his shoulders relax. “What are you doing here, Skulduggery? No one notified me that you were discharged from medical.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Skulduggery moved, finally, pushing himself up into a sitting position with his elbow.

“I’m not,” he said and his fingers moved to the buttons on his shirt. They weren’t gloved. “I left.”

Ghastly stared at him. “That’s a breach in security, Skulduggery. You’re not supposed to be up and wandering around.”

“I’m not, though. I’ve been here, the whole time.”

“You know full well that’s not the point. What the hell are you thinking?”

Those eye sockets turned to meet Ghastly’s gaze and Skulduggery paused. 

“I was uncomfortable,” he said finally. 

The candle was truly in danger of burning itself out now, and Ghastly moved to replace it. 

“We can get you anything you need,” he told him and the chest opened heavily. “You just need to ask. And the medical tent is much more accommodating than here.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Ghastly glanced at him as he waited for him to continue. Skulduggery’s hands had dropped into his lap and he was looking at the opposite wall.

“I’m not blind,” Skulduggery said. His voice was low. “I can see how I’m looked at. I see it from you, too. And I understand. I expected this. I tried to prepare myself. But the way they look at me, Ghastly. At least you and Hopeless and Ravel make an obvious effort to hide it.”

Ghastly struck a match and the new candle blazed to life. Its light was strong and steady and Ghastly closed the chest, setting the candle on its lid.

“I don’t need you to apologize,” Skulduggery continued, “because there’s nothing to apologize for. But you can only be looked at like a monster for so long before you start to believe it. I needed out.”

The tent was quiet as Ghastly watched the flame dance. His mouth felt dry. He wished for an intense moment that Hopeless was here to help him find the words to say. Skulduggery moved in the corner of Ghastly’s vision as he swung his legs off the bed. He had been issued new boots, and these were solid and sturdy but they landed on the dirt with barely a sound.

“I’m sorry,” Skulduggery said, and Ghastly realized he’d been staring at that flame for far too long. His silence must have been deafening. “This isn’t like me, but I felt you needed to know why I was here. I was only planning on staying until you arrived.”

“No,” Ghastly said. “No, it’s fine. You can stay as long as you need. How are you feeling?” He was desperate to change the subject, but instantly felt guilty as he did so. Skulduggery was obviously willing to talk, and here Ghastly was, allowing his discomfort to shut him out.

Skulduggery took a moment to respond. “It… aches, I suppose. I’m not really sure how to describe it.”

“You’re lucky you didn’t get shot in the head. A shattered skull may be impossible to put back together.”

“I’m well aware.”

“It’s good to know you can recover so quickly. I guess I don’t have to worry about you as much anymore.”

Skulduggery didn’t reply and Ghastly shifted slightly. Skulduggery turned his head to the tent entrance.

The flap moved suddenly, and Ghastly saw boots. He stood and he was aware of how stiff Skulduggery had become on the cot.

Hopeless let the flap fall close as he stepped through and Ghastly let himself relax. Hopeless looked between the two of them.

“I could feel you from my tent,” Hopeless said, looking at Ghastly. “I was worried something was wrong.”

Ghastly looked down as Skulduggery turned his head to him. 

“Skulduggery needed someplace quiet,” Ghastly said. “He surprised me when I got back, that’s all.”

Hopeless looked between them again and then stared at Ghastly. His brow furrowed slightly, and then a look of understanding crossed his features.

“I’m sorry, I should have taken a proper look before barging in here,” he said.

No one responded.

Hopeless glanced around for a moment more and then turned to peer at Skulduggery. “Can you sleep?”

Ghastly blinked in surprise and watched as Skulduggery looked at Hopeless, his head tilting. He made a low noise and it took Ghastly a moment to realize Skulduggery was laughing.

“You read his mind,” he said, “and that’s what you decide to ask?”

Hopeless shrugged. “It’s a legitimate question.”

“No,” Skulduggery said, and he folded a leg beneath him. Ghastly felt more of his tension leak away as he watched Skulduggery relax. “I don’t have any eyes too close to even begin to try.”

“So you don’t get tired?”

“Not as of yet.”

Ghastly allowed a thank you to swell in his mind, appreciation washing over him. This is what Hopeless was good at, and Skulduggery’s demeanor had shifted. Not more at ease, but less unsure and more relaxed. Ghastly did feel, however, that the willingness for open honesty from Skulduggery had been shut off the moment Hopeless had walked in.

Hopeless was nodding slowly and didn’t acknowledge Ghastly’s thoughts. “Hm,” he said, and then, “I have this thing I do. I can’t turn my power off, but I’ve trained myself to sort of zone out as I move through the day. It quiets my thoughts and muffles those around me. You should try that.”

Skulduggery's head tilted. “Do you mean meditating?”

“Yes. That.”

The tent went silent for a moment.

“Perhaps,” Skulduggery said, finally, “if I get bored enough.”

“I had a briefing with Corrival this morning,” Hopeless said, moving right along. “You might be relieved to know you won’t have to stay here much longer. Meritorious wants you to go to the Sanctuary and meet with him.”

Skulduggery looked at him. “Meritorious?”

“I don’t know what about.”

“I had one, too,” Ghastly added, “and I don’t know, either.”

It was silent and then Skulduggery nodded. “I had a feeling this was coming. I’m being escorted, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“Then I should probably meet with them beforehand.”

“You already have. Hopeless and I will be going with you.”

Skulduggery paused. “Ravel hasn’t said anything?”

Ghastly felt himself frown. “What does that matter?”

“If Corrival knew what really happened on our outing, I doubt he would be so willing to let me travel so lightly.”

“Skulduggery,” Ghastly asked after a slight pause, seizing the opportunity, “what exactly _did_ happen out there?”

There was no reply. Skulduggery looked at him and didn’t respond. Hopeless glanced at him sharply.

“When do we leave?” He asked, finally, and Ghastly refrained himself from repeating his question again.

“Whenever you’re back on your feet, which it seems you are. Tomorrow, most likely. Dublin is about a two days journey from here.”

Skulduggery nodded again and stood. “Then I should probably return to medical. I’m sure Corrival will be waiting there by now.”

“I’m surprised no one’s raised an alarm.”

A shoulder shrugged. “I left a note.”

Ghastly couldn't stop the grin from spreading. “You left a note?”

“I did."

"You thought a note would stop them looking for you?"

"It's clearly working."

“You never leave notes.”

“And look how that’s worked out for me.”

“I’ll walk you back,” Hopeless said, “Ghastly here needs some sleep.”

He snapped a lazy salute and disappeared out of the tent. Skulduggery moved to follow and Ghastly reached out, moving on impulse. Skulduggery stopped and looked at Ghastly’s hand on his upper arm, and then at Ghastly himself.

Ghastly opened his mouth, realizing he didn’t know how to say what he wanted to, much less what Skulduggery needed to hear.

“My tent is open,” he said, instead. “It’s always open to friends.”

Skulduggery looked at him and Ghastly could see the shadows dance and play on the inside of his skull. And then Skulduggery nodded, turned, and followed Hopeless into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I think alive!skulduggery would look like, an important detail I realized as I started writing that scene. He has dark hair. That's all I know. 
> 
> Not sure how much I like this chapter (perhaps because it's unlucky #13?), but it's too late now! Moving on to the next chapters that I'm excited to write.
> 
> We're heading off to the sanctuary now, for some unknown reason. Who knows who we might meet...
> 
> Tally ho!


	14. The Wrong Kind of Nightlife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My updating schedule's all about surprises and is wonky at best, so if you like this story and you want to know when it's updated, feel free to subscribe to it!

“I don’t like the city. It’s too…”

“Busy?”

“Dirty.”

Saracen nodded, eyes sweeping the streets.

“I mean,” Dexter continued, “what’s the appeal? Don’t they get bored? Don’t they get tired of being so cramped all the time? And the air here. It stinks.”

“That’s because it’s a city.”

“I noticed.”

“And yet you’re still complaining about all the same things.”

“I never thought I’d say this,” Dexter said, “but I think I would much prefer to be sleeping in the woods somewhere.”

Saracen’s head swiveled to Dexter and his eyes narrowed. “No you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I think I would.”

“No. You wouldn’t. Because we’re going to find someplace to stay for the night, and then we’re going to find some food, and then once you’ve had a few drinks, you won’t care anymore and we can go to sleep in nice, soft, warm beds.”

Someone swept past Dexter and he had to step to the side to avoid colliding with another. The street they were on was busy, the shops open and bustling. Laughter drifted over the sounds of the walking and talking and haggling. Dublin was a space on the rise, one of the largest cities in Ireland. Dexter didn’t understand why the Sanctuary, a place for people who were trying to keep their existence a secret, chose to make their hiding place in such a populated area. It felt cramped and vulnerable, and Dexter didn’t like it.

“Then you better make finding those drinks a priority,” he said. “Do you even have any idea where you’re going?”

“No. I’m just looking around.”

Dexter stared at him. “You’re _sightseeing_?”

“I’m multitasking,” Saracen responded defensively, “I’m both looking for a place we can stay and taking in the city at the same time. Two birds with one stone. I really think you need to relax.”

“Alright. That’s it.” Dexter stopped walking. “You’re going to ask someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t really care.”

Saracen glanced around, darting across the faces that moved around them. His gaze settled. “I’ll ask her,” he said, and marched away.

Dexter watched him as he approached the woman. Of course it was a woman. She was pretty, with blonde hair and clothes that obviously signified status. She was standing there outside a shop and Saracen sidled up beside her. Dexter watched as she looked at him and he smiled a dashing smile. He said something and she laughed. She responded and Saracen’s face furrowed in utter interest. She gestured down the street and he nodded. He touched her arm. She smiled.

He was flirting.

And then a big man, because of course he was, exited the shop in front of which they stood. Dexter could see, even from his position, as Saracen’s face slackened as the man approached. He took a step back. The man fixed him with a steely look. The woman smiled, held the big man’s arm gently. She said something. Saracen held out his hand. The man stared at him, took it, and Saracen visibly stiffened at the grip. They let go, Saracen nodded politely, and then he turned on his heel and walked away. Dexter watched him.

“There’s an inn down the street,” Saracen said, “and it has a bar.”

“You look a little shaken,” Dexter said, as casually as he could.

Saracen started walking and Dexter followed behind.

“One of these days,” Dexter said to his back, “you’re going to have to learn not to flirt with every pretty woman you talk to.”

“I wasn’t flirting with her,” Saracen said, not even bothering to turn his head. “I was being friendly.”

Dexter grinned. “You weren’t very friendly when the big man showed up.”

A glare was shot in his direction and Dexter laughed as Saracen led them around a corner and down the adjoining street. A sign swung overhead as they approached their destination. The Foggy Inn.

“She said this was the best place to come if you’re only staying in town for a little while,” Saracen said. “Apparently, this is a good part of town.”

Dexter gripped the wooden handle and opened the door, allowing Saracen to walk first. It was solid and heavy, and it closed with a thunk behind them. The inn was quiet and relatively empty, a blessed relief from the bustle just outside the door. There were a few tables, two men playing cards, and a fireplace that warmed the whole room. A man approached them as they stood there. He was lean and wiry, but his eyes were kind. He smiled.

“What can I do you for?” He asked, placing his hands on his hips. “You from out of town?”

“We are,” Saracen replied. “We’re looking for a place to stay for a few nights.”

“Well, then, you’ve certainly come to the right place.” The man stuck his hand out. “The name’s Griffy. This here’s my place.”

Dexter shook his hand, as did Saracen. They followed Griffy over to a desk and he took out a heavy leather bound book from one of the drawers. “I’ll just need you to sign in here,” he told them, “pay the rate, and then you’ll be all set. Been in town long?”

“No, actually,” Saracen said as Dexter did as they were asked. “We’re here for a job.”

Griffy nodded. “I figured that’s probably what it was. Have you spent much time in Dublin?”

“It’s my first time here.”

“She’s a fine city, she is,” Griffy said. “Been here my whole life. Grew up in this very building, in fact. There isn’t anything like city living. I tried doing the country thing there when I was younger, but I wasn’t one for the quiet or the solitude, so I came right on back and I’ve stayed here ever since.”

“I can’t say I agree,” Dexter said and placed the pen on the table. Griffy grunted.

“I guess it ain’t for everyone. You two look like the traveling type. Been anywhere exciting?”

“Depends on what you consider exciting.”

“Outside of this city would be exciting to me. How about outside the country.”

“Oh, yes,” Saracen said, leaning against the counter. “In fact, Spain happens to be my favorite so far. It’s very beautiful down there.”

“He means the ladies,” Dexter chimed in, “but the country is lovely, too. The French are insufferable, but I quite enjoyed Paris.”

Griffy took the book and the payment, slipping both beneath the desk. “I suppose that is the unfortunate reality of never traveling as I’ll never get the chance to see these places myself.”

“Why don’t you?” Dexter asked.

“No, sir,” Griffy responded and his fist thumped against his chest. “This inn’s been run by four generations of O’Sullivans and I plan to run this place till I’m dead.”

“I’m sure you could take a holiday here or there?”

“Afraid I don’t got the funds for something like that. If you can’t tell, we’re not particularly busy during this time of year.” Griffy leaned forward slightly. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is it you two do that made you so well traveled?”

Dexter could see Saracen hesitating. “We’re bounty hunters,” Dexter lied. “We just finished a job and we’re waiting for a new contract.”

The thin eyebrows on Griffy’s forehead rose in surprise. “Bounty hunters, eh? That’s a dangerous line of work.”

“It is.”

“Seen a lot of fighting, then?”

“We have.”

“Hm.” Griffy went quiet for a moment. “Well, in that case, drinks are on me this evening.”

Dexter opened his mouth to protest, but closed it as Griffy held up his hand.

“Seems to me,” he said, “that hard working men like you deserve it. Besides, you can pay me back with some stories later.”

The rooms he gave them were clean and simple and lightly furnished. There was a bed, a water basin, a small dresser, and nothing on the walls. The doors were solid and the locks strong, which Dexter checked immediately after Griffy’s footsteps disappeared down the hall. Saracen stood watching him.

“No one is going to try and break into your room,” he said, and Dexter shrugged.

“Can’t ever be too cautious.”

He stepped inside and Saracen followed, closing the door behind him. A chair scraped across the floor as Saracen spun it around. He straddled it and crossed his arms over the back, resting his chin on his forearms. Dexter sat on the bed.

“How long,” Saracen asked, “until the Sanctuary gives us our next job, do you think?”

“Who knows? Anything could happen.”

“I heard that Vengeous made a surprise attack on the border of France and Germany.”

“I thought he was in Poland?”

“So did they.”

Dexter nodded slowly. “What did you think of Meritorious?”

“He’s impressive, that's for sure. He looks at you like he can see right through you. Didn’t think we’d get to meet him.”

They lapsed into silence. Dexter knew what Saracen wanted to talk about. They hadn’t broached the topic with each other since it happened, and once they had arrived at the Sanctuary, despite recanting their experience to the Elders, the opportunity had been stolen from them. This was their first quiet moment, and Saracen thought it was time.

It breached Dexter’s mind sometimes, bursting in uninvited while he slept, mingling with the cacophony of nightmares he usually had. Dexter didn’t want to talk about it. He could hardly even wrap his head around what he saw, much less put the experience into words.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Dexter asked. Saracen raised an eyebrow.

“A walk?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I thought you hated walking?”

“What? When did I ever say I hated walking?”

“Well,” Saracen said, “you didn’t exactly say it. You were just so adamant about finding an inn earlier…”

“How do you get that I hate walking from prioritizing our lodging over sightseeing?”

“They seemed to correlate.”

“How? Tell me how they correlate? We walk everywhere, Saracen.”

“No,” Saracen pointed out, “we ride horses everywhere. And I thought you hated the city?”

“What does the city have to do with walking? I do hate the city. I like walking. Walking is something I enjoy. Walking is relaxing.”

“But you’ll be walking through the city.”

“Fine,” Dexter said, standing abruptly, “I’ll go walking by myself.”

He opened the door.

“Wait,” Saracen said from behind, following him out onto the landing, “wait. I’ll go with you. Someone needs to protect you.”

“And what will you be protecting me from?”

Saracen shrugged. “No idea. I’ll keep an eye out and I’ll know it when I see it.”

They walked down the stairs. Dexter gave Griffy a nod as Saracen told him they would be back shortly. The drinks will be waiting, Griffy told them. And then the door opened and they were back out on the street.

It was significantly quieter now than it had been during the afternoon. The sun had slipped it’s way below the horizon and the chill of night was creeping through the streets. It was dark and dirt crunched beneath boots as they started walking in silence.

They wandered slowly, moving in the opposite direction they had come from and further from the Sanctuary. It was a nice area, the buildings sitting neatly beside each other, the dirt road free of mud. For a moment, Dexter could see the appeal. And then he thought about his family's little house by the river and playing in the fields and the trees as a young boy, and that appeal quickly faded again. It was much simpler, then, when he didn’t have all the horrors of war and magic embedded in his mind.

Saracen stopped suddenly, placing a hand on Dexter’s shoulder and pulling him back abruptly. Dexter turned, opened his mouth to speak, but stopped. Saracen held a finger to his mouth and his brow was furrowed in concentration as his eyes scanned the darkness.

“What is it?” Dexter whispered. Saracen didn’t answer, but started walking, hugging the buildings and moving onto a side street.

Dexter didn’t question him again. Something was wrong. Despite his power being a secret, Dexter had learned not to question Saracen at times like these. He had an uncanny way of discerning trouble before it arose, and it had saved the two of them on many occasions. ‘I know things,’ was all Saracen would tell him when Dexter asked about his magic. Usually, it was infuriating. At times like these, it was still infuriating, but usefully so.

Saracen led them slowly away from the main street. The area where they were was swamped in darkness, and the buildings were close on either side. He had led them into an alley, and the pungent air of stagnant water and filth washed through Dexter’s nose. His hand rested lightly on his gun. It was tight here, with not much room to maneuver, not ideal for Dexter’s choice of discipline. His energy blasts were powerful, and while he could concentrate his magic into smaller, more bullet-like projectiles, it was still better suited to more open areas where he didn’t have to worry about hitting his comrade. If they got into a scuffle, Dexter readied himself for hand-to-hand.

They slowed to a creep, sliding behind a large wooden crate, and Dexter heard the voices. They were low and coy. Someone laughed softly. And then another voice, quiet and panicked. Another laugh. There was the thump of boot meeting flesh and a grunt and a quiet wheezing.

“-don’t suppose you have anything else?” A voice was saying.

“Please,” came the response. They seemed to be out of breath. “I was just trying to get home.”

“By cutting through ours?” This voice was thick and deep. “Still seems like trespassing to me.”

“You don’t own-” started the breathless voice, and was cut off by another thump.

Saracen’s eyes were tight when Dexter looked at him. “Five of them,” he whispered, “and a sixth, on the ground. I think it’s a mugging.”

Dexter shifted and moved, peering around the corner. There were indeed five of them, ratted and dirty, standing in a ring over a man curled on the ground.

“Whaddaya think, Curly?” One of them asked.

The first voice spoke again. “I think trespassing’s a crime with a hefty fee. And what did he give us?”

“Two shillings.”

“Two shillings,” the man repeated. “That don’t seem like fair compensation, now does it? If we’re going to let you off the hook, you’re going to need to do better than that. You say you’re married? Got a ring?”

The man on the ground shifted and it looked like he was trying to get up. “Please,” he said, again, “you took my money. Just let me go.”

One of the members of the ring placed a boot on the man's back and forced him back onto the ground. “He asked you if you got a ring, mate.”

“I don’t.”

“We think you do.”

“I don’t. Please.”

The first man, the one Dexter was beginning to think was in charge, slipped a long knife from his coat. It glinted dimly in the darkness. 

“I hope you know,” he said, hunkering down next to the man, “that if you’re lying, and we find a pretty little ring, we’re going to be taking the finger with it.”

The man whimpered.

“Hey,” Dexter said, and stood.

Five pairs of eyes turned in his direction in surprise. Saracen didn’t move from his position. Good. Let them think he was alone and if they didn’t run from Dexter’s approach, use surprise to their advantage.

The first man grinned and twirled the dagger. “Well, well,” he said, “what do we have here?”

He wasn’t running.

“Let him go.”

“This ain’t any of your business, friend.”

“I won’t repeat myself.”

The man peered at him. “You do realize that there are five of us and-”

“Only one of me,” Dexter finished for him. “Yes. I am aware.”

“You don’t look very worried.”

“And you don’t look like a threat.”

The man scowled and a companion, the one who had used his boot to push their victim back in the dirt, put a hand on his shoulder.

“Curly,” he said, voice low, “what if he’s one of them?” 

“So what if he is?” The man, Curly, snapped back. “There’s five of us, we can take one wizard freak on our own.”

Dexter froze slightly and he saw Saracen look at him in surprise. These men were mortals, that much was clear. Mortals who also clearly knew about magic. Curly returned his attention to Dexter.

“Well? You one of them wizard freaks?”

“Wizards?” Dexter responded. He furrowed his brow, playing confusion. “No. I’m not a wizard. I can do this thing where I make a coin disappear, but that’s all sleight of hand. Does that make me a wizard?”

Curly narrowed his eyes. “You could be lying.”

“Why would I be lying? Who would want to be called a wizard, anyways? That just sounds… silly. Who told you there were wizards in Ireland?”

“We’ve seen them,” the man next to Curly said. “They’ve spoken to us.”

Dexter frowned. “Spoken to you? Did they have magic wands and say magic words?”

“One of them made fire-”

“Wow.”

“And another made a cup fly.”

“You’re sure someone didn’t just throw it while you weren’t looking?”

“They didn’t touch it.”

“Maybe they were just really fast.”

Curly scowled. “You’re mocking us.”

“Only a little.”

The knife glinted as Curly raised it and his buddies took a step forward. The man on the ground wasn’t on the ground anymore, and he bolted, disappearing around a corner. Dexter nodded after him. 

“Your quarry got away. Seems like we're done here.”

“Oh, no,” Curly responded, a sneer creeping across his features, “but we’re not done with you.”

“You don’t want to do this.”

“I really think we do.”

Dexter took a step back, moving further away. He saw Saracen shift out of the corner of his eye, and then Curly was there, the knife flashing through the air. It was a clumsy swing and Dexter dodged back, keeping space between them. One of the other men moved forward to help Curly, and Saracen moved, sweeping his leg wide and striking at the ankles. The man crashed to the ground, hard. He didn’t get up.

There were sounds of anger now, and Saracen moved to intercept the other three men. Dexter dodged another swipe of the blade and lunged forward and grabbed Curly’s wrist. He cried out in surprise and then Dexter kicked his knee and he buckled, tumbling to the ground. Laughably easy. Saracen looked at him, the other three in various uncomfortable positions, all unconscious.

Dexter stepped to Curly who groaned, kicking the knife away. “Who told you about the sorcerers?”

Curly glared at him. “You’re one of them.”

“I won’t ask again.”

“I don’t know ‘em. Said they wanted to hire us. Never heard back.”

“Hire you for what?”

Curly shrugged. “I don’t know. We didn’t get that far. We’re not the only one’s, though. They’ve been talking with a lot of us in the gutter.” He glared. “What are you going to do, kill me?”

“No,” Saracen said and Curly shifted his glare, “but you are going to disappear. We have some friends who would be very interested in what you know.”

Curly opened his mouth to protest and Dexter's boot swooped in, catching him on the edge of the jaw. Curly’s eyes rolled and he went limp. Saracen looked at Dexter.

“Someone’s telling mortals about us.”

“But why?” Dexter asked. “What would that achieve in the middle of a war?”

“No idea. This feels big. The Elders won’t be pleased.”

“No, they won’t.”

They paused.

“I guess it’s back to the Sanctuary for us,” Saracen said finally. “Looks like those drinks will have to wait. Sorry.”

Dexter scowled. “I just wanted to go for a walk, not have you rope me into some alley fight.”

“This turned out to be important, though.”

“Is that something you knew, too?”

“No,” Saracen said, “I just knew there was a fight. Should we go after the guy who ran away?”

“No. He’s been through enough. We should let him go home.”

Saracen nodded. The buildings loomed over them, cutting off the silvery light of the moon. Somewhere, a dog barked. A carriage trundled past. Here, the city slept, unaware of the magic and the danger at its fingertips and further still of the unrest that broiled in its underbelly.

It didn’t seem, Dexter thought, that they would be leaving any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plodded through this bir by bit and changed direction no less than four different times. That being said, you might (possibly) be please to know I have finished the first two chapters of a separate short fic I'm working on. 
> 
> Cheers.


End file.
